


Guardian of Eden

by RavenclawAngel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Demons, Gen, Historical, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 50,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenclawAngel/pseuds/RavenclawAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We know that in Good Omens Aziraphale guarded Eden, while in Supernatural it was Gadreel. How has this minor change in guardians effected the lives of all of humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Season 9 supernatural. Do not read unless you have watched up to Holy Terror (or don't mind being spoiled).
> 
> This is my first attempt at Fanfiction and I don't have a beta so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. 
> 
> All characters belong to their respective owners, I'm just playing with them.

Before The Beginning

            It was the beginning, no it was before the beginning and everything was still in its planning stages. Fortunately though, except for some brief troubles with the leviathans, everything was going smoothly and God was about to begin. He had already sketched out every creature he wanted to make on Earth and was just putting the final touches on how many limbs each thing should have. He had already decided to go with even numbers for most things. One didn’t give enough stability and balance and three just looked silly. Two to four limbs usually sufficed, occasionally six or eight and when he was feeling particularly creative, upwards of twenty.

            He was also finishing up the garden. Not just any old garden but The Garden. It was so important he had taken to capitalizing it in his head. It was beautiful; warm, but not too hot, and thick with trees bearing fruits and nuts. The only thing left to do know was choose a guardian for it. The guardian had to be his most trusted and loyal angel. Not that he doubted the loyalty of any of his angels, but not all of them were fit to be guardians:

            Samandriel was sweet but not authoritative enough,

            Balthazar had just heard about the invention of alcohol and had seemed far too eager to try it,

            Gabriel was far too Mischievous, while Rapheal had the opposite problem of being too serious,

            Michael was too busy running heaven while God focused on Earth,

            And although he had briefly considered Castiel, he had decided that Castiel’s habit of intense staring might be uncomfortable and off putting to the newly created humans.  

             After many hours of arguing with himself, and weighing the pros and cons of each angel, God had narrowed it down to two angels. Gadreel and Aziraphale. They were both were smart, loyal, and highly respected by their siblings. In the end Aziraphale’s tendency to shirk duties for heaven’s library was the deciding factor and Gadreel was chosen as the Guardian of Eden. Eons later God would still question whether he had made the right choice. 


	2. The Beginning

“What are you doing here?” a harsh voice asks pointing a flaming sword dangerously close to Crawly’s face.

            “Jussst enjoying the ssssun” he hissed, “not all of usss were lucky enough to be given warm blooded bodies.” Crowley curls up on a heated rock, pointedly ignoring the flaming sword that still hovered much closer to him than he was fully comfortable with.

            “Problem?” he asks unhinging his jaw to yawn. The sword is removed as the angel shrugs and takes a seat on the rock next to him. Crowley manages to hide his surprise only by the fact that snakes can’t make a properly surprised face even when they try.

            “Bored” the angel, Gadreel, grunts, “the humans are frolicking.”

            “Still? You’d thinking after the first few days frolicking would lose its appeal” Crowley says lazily uncoiling himself.

Gadreel shrugs, “I will never understand humans.” He looks up at the sky, “it will be dark soon and I really must be finishing my rounds.”

Crawly doesn’t bother saying goodbye, but as he replays the conversation in his head he gets to thinking… Downstairs did say to cause some trouble and frolicking for 7 full days was much too long in crawly’s opinion. He slithers off the rock in search of Eve.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They looked so cold and scared that Gadreel almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

“Please, at least give us a day to gather food” the female was begging. She had a hand protectively over her stomach that had a noticeable bump to it.

He sneers at them for their arrogance. How dare they disrespect his father and still expect mercy. He takes out his sword and points it at them threateningly. He doesn’t miss how the two desperate humans stare at the flaming blade with longing.

“Do you…Do you perhaps have a spare one of those?” the male asks hopefully.

Gadreel laughs, “An angel blade? You actually want me to give you my angel blade.” He shakes his head in disgust and points towards the gates. The humans slowly leaving, both casting sad looks back at him as if they hope he’ll change his mind. He remains resolute though. He has already failed father once, he won’t do so again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

God shakes his head sadly. He really had such high hopes for his angels. Empathy was the most difficult emotion to create and he really had thought he had managed in his angels. Unfortunately, the debacle with Lucifer and now Gadreel was making him seriously doubt himself. He could only hope that the humans did better than the angels. Though when he looked down at Adam and Eve arguing over meager scraps of food he didn’t feel very optimistic.

            He looks back to Gadreel who is storming around Eden clearly looking for a fight. God watches as he confronts the snake demon Crawly and the ensuing fight that tears up the once beautiful garden and sends all the other animals fleeing for the exit. Gadreel pins the demon and raises his sword to strike the killing blow. That’s when, with a bolt of lightning, God intervened. After all he had already failed with his angels and was rapidly losing hope with his humans, and he was determined to see his demon with a spark of goodness succeed.

            Locking Gadreel up was a huge ceremonious event. He didn’t cast him down as he had Lucifer because he still had hope for his angels, and perhaps a little empathy for the angel cowering terrified in front of him. Still the angels had to learn that messing with the humans would not be tolerated. As soon as the affair was over he gave instructions to not be disturbed and to take any problems to Michael as he would be in charge while God decided what he was going to do about humanity which had now been turned loose on the rest of the Earth.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Meanwhile, with Gadreel recalled back to heaven, hell decided that having a field agent was unnecessary. With a heavy heart Crawly looked around the garden in all its ruined glory. He was the last living thing in the place.  Trees were overturned, flowers trampled, and everything covered in mud. Crawly sighs guiltily. He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he just wanted things to be a little less boring. He slithered up the only tree still standing and flicked an apple off its branch with his tail. He sniffs it suspiciously and then flicks it with his tongue. Finally he takes a bite. The apple is mostly sweet with an underlying taste of bitterness to it. Its juiciness flooded his mouth but left him feeling parched afterwards. All in all, the apple could merely be described as okay and certainly not worth the trouble it caused. Leaving the apple unfinished Crawly shed his mortal body and rejoined his kin in hell. 


	3. Centuries after the Beginning: Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous Egypt incident that Cas doesn't remember.

“Is everything ready for the final plague?” Michael asks. Raphael nods. Gabriel rolls his eyes.

            “Isn’t this something we should really get father’s approval on?” Gabriel asks. Michael raises an eyebrow at him.

            “Father doesn’t wish to be disturbed and I am more than capable of handling one little pharaoh.” He says calmly surveying the tiny model of Egypt on the table in front of him. He and his top commanders had just finished a successful strategizing session.

            “But what about His whole message of love thy neighbor?”

            “These heathens have enslaved and murdered our own people. They deserve no mercy. Besides I’m not completely heartless, children are granted a place in heaven no matter how heathen they are.”

            “How noble of you” Gabriel says sarcastically rolling his eyes.

            Michael glares, “Your job is not to question, but to follow orders. Now go and gather the forces. We attack at midnight.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Kill all of them?” Castiel gasps

“No, only the firstborn sons who are in a dwelling without the lambs blood” Gabreil said, careful to keep his voice neutral. It wouldn’t do to voice descent in front of the troops.

“Even the babies?” Aziraphale asks nervously making his angel blade flare up. Setting things on fire was a bad habit of his that nobody could quite figure out. Even things that were normally immune to fire like metals, water, and on one memorable occasion Uriel’s wing, were liable to catch fire if Aziraphale was properly agitated.

“Yes.” Gabriel quickly dismissed them after that as Aziraphale’s tunic was beginning to smoke. He watched them file out. Balthazar would be going straight to the halls to get drunk, Uriel to the training room for some last minute practice, and Anneal to go argue with Michael (he actually smiles slightly at that thought).  Samandriel would follow wherever Castiel went, so probably to some quiet corner of heaven, and Aziraphale would go to the library. It was comforting, he thought, at how well he knew his siblings.

            “Castiel, can you come with me?” Aziraphale says quietly as he gently pulls Castiel towards the library.

            “Of course brother” Castiel says obediently. Samandriel follows.

            “Samandriel if you could be a dear and go check on the weapons” Aziraphale says quickly when he notices Castiel’s shadow. Samandriel opens his mouth to argue but Castiel stops him with a shake of his head. Pouting slightly Heaven’s youngest angel turned and walked towards the weapons room, making sure to put maximum amount of sulk into each step. Once he is properly out of sight Aziraphale leads Castiel to a deserted hallway. Glancing around nervously to make sure he isn’t overheard he says quietly, “Children? This isn’t what father would want.”

            “Well no…but he hasn’t put a stop to it” Castiel reasons.

            “Only because Michael hasn’t told him of his plans.”

            “Father is all knowing, he doesn’t need Michael to tell him.”

            “Then father is wrong” Aziraphale says angrily. Castiel gasps in shock.

            “You can’t mean that” he whispers nervously.

            “No, of course not! I just lost my temper. I’m sorry.” Aziraphale says looking properly ashamed by his outburst. An awkward silence ensues as Castiel continues looking at Aziraphale expectantly.

            “Are you willing to kill children in the name of our father?” Aziraphale finally asks.

            “I must admit I do not look forward to the task…but I don’t see any way around it…unless you do.”

            Aziraphale smiles and there is an unusual hint of mischievousness to it, “The orders say only kill those who are in a dwelling without lambs blood on the front door right?”

            Castiel nods. It takes a few seconds but his eyes light up in understanding, “When shall we leave?”

            “Immediately. I’ve never been to earth before and Father only knows how big Egypt is,” Aziraphale says.  

            It took longer than they had hoped to get to Egypt. Aziraphale blamed Castiel for getting them hopelessly lost and taking them through most of Asia before realizing they were on the wrong continent. Castiel maintained that if they had followed Aziraphale’s direction they would have ended up in the Americas. Finally however they touched down in Egypt, not long before midnight. Aziraphale miracles bowls of lamb’s blood for himself and his brother and instructs Castiel to get to work on the West side while he takes the East side. They would, hopefully meet up in the middle before the others arrived. Castiel salutes and takes off, leaving Aziraphale to begin painting doorways on his side of the country.

            “Hey Mister?” a voice said causing Aziraphale to jump slightly.

            “Yes dear?” he asks continuing his painting

            “Why are you painting my house?” he asks curiously.

            “I’m protecting it from the final plague heaven plans on unleashing” Aziraphale says as he finishes and hurries to the next home.

            “Oh,” the boy follow him to the next home as well, “I don’t think my mom is going to like it. She’s probably going to make me scrub it off, and I don’t appreciate extra chores.”

            “Listen, whatever happens do not let anyone take the blood off your door” Aziraphale says seriously. The boy nods but seems bored and eventually wanders off.

Aziraphale finishes the rest of the boy’s street and continues on to the next street over. As he’s covering the doorway of an elderly women cradling her newborn grandson he senses the oncoming arrival of his siblings. He hurries to warn Castiel, leaving the rest of the street undone. He flies, darting behind buildings as his siblings begin to touch down. A small part of his brain registers bright flashes coming from unmarked homes as his siblings smite the sons. He notices with a shudder that Uriel seems to be greatly enjoying himself as he challenges others to try and smite more than him.

            He rounds a corner and gasps. Castiel is on his knees with his hands behind his back as two intimidating angels Aziraphale doesn’t recognize stand guard. Lambs blood on Castiel’s hands and spilled down the front of him give away his crime. Aziraphale stands frozen in fear and indecision. Looking down he sees that his hands are no less clean, metaphorically or physically. Castiel looks up and catches his eye and shakes his head slightly. Aziraphale backs into a shadowy corner and watches, but does nothing, as Castiel is escorted back to heaven. Aziraphale spends the rest of the mission hiding out of sight to avoid having to smite anyone.   

            When he finally returns to heaven he immediately searches for Castiel. He searches all his usual haunts; the library, the training room, and a few favorite heavens but can’t find him anywhere. He questions everyone from their garrison, but even Samandriel hasn’t seen him. Aziraphale leans against a wall and with a thud slides down it. Heaven only knew what their superiors were doing to Castiel. Aziraphale looks down at his bloodstained hands and whimpered. This was his idea, any punishment Castiel faced should be his to bear as well. He buries his head in his knees and tries not to think of the chaos happening in Egypt as parents who were just now beginning to wake found their first born sons dead in their beds, or the things going on in heaven that were cruel enough to put hell to shame.

            “Are you alright brother?” A familiar voice asks. Aziraphale’s head jerks up to see a pair of blue eyes intensely staring at him in concern.

            “Castiel” Aziraphale jumps up and gives him a tackle-like hug. Castiel stiffens. When he realizes that Aziraphale has no intentions of letting go just yet he awkwardly pats him on the shoulder.

            “Um…are you alright?” Castiel asks again.

            “Oh yes. They didn’t catch me, but what about you dear?”

            “I’m fine” the confusion was clear in his voice and Aziraphale draws back so he can get a better look at him.

            “But what did they do to you?” He asks

            “What did ‘who’ do to me?” Castiel looking like he was about to drag Aziraphale off to have his head examined by Raphael.

            “The ones who caught you…in Egypt”

            “I’ve never been to Egypt” Castiel says untangling himself from Aziraphale’s grasp. Aziraphale stares at him, knowing that there is no way that Castiel is that good of a liar.

            “…Of course dear. My mistake” Aziraphale finally says. Castiel quickly hurries off while aziraphale heads to the library to research memory loss in angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you all liked this chapter, it's my longest chapter yet! I'm not entirely pleased with some of the dialogue... The next chapter should be up fairly quickly.


	4. Alexandria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poor books never stood a chance.

“This is a dumb idea” Samandriel says

            “Well if you don’t like it why don’t you go run and hide back to heaven” Balthazar snaps.

            “Samandriel’s right, we are taking considerable and unnecessary risks” Castel says

            “Shut up the lot of you,” Gabriel says nicking a loaf of sweetbread from the cart, “You’re with me. This is an educational trip for you to study human nature and stuff”

            “That’s just your cover so you can talk to the Egptain Goddess Anput” Aziraphale accuses sullenly. Gabriel glares but doesn’t actually argue so Aziraphale takes that as a small victory, at least until a small devious appears on Gabriel’s face.

            “Look guys” he says full of fake enthusiasm, “The Library of Alexandria. Looks like a perfect place to study humanity.”

            “You’re joking” Balthazar glares. Aziraphale tries not to look to eager, while Samandriel and Castiel silently wish that Gabriel had left them home in this little excursion.

            Gabriel drops them all off in front of the library, “Ok now, you kids behave yourselves and learn lots of things.” He pointedly annoys Balthazars grumblings and Samandriel’s and Castiel’s pitiful looks. As soon as Gabriel is out of sight Balthazar goes to the tavern across the street. He invites the others but Aziraphale is too enthralled by the books to notice, and Samandriel and Castiel decide that they are probably safer in the library.

            “Suit yourselves” Balthazar shrugs, leaving the other three in the library. Not far from the angels, a young man hurries along the streets. He is shabbily dressed, but that does little to take away from his appearance. He pushes a lock of dark hair out of his face nervously as he enters the library. He heads straight to the back of the library. He doesn’t go to the library often, but the old man had promised him that the book containing the information he was searching for would be there. He pulls book after book out of its spot hastily, causing Aziraphale to give him a brief glare before returning to his reading, before he finally finds a tattered leather bound book. He hurries to a quiet corner to read. The pages are a mixture of Egyptian, Latin, Arabic, and a language that only three beings in the library could read. He flips through the book desperately until he finds what he’s looking for. In his excitement he forgets the old man’s warning about waiting until he’s someplace private to read the spell out loud.

            He lights the candle as the book requires and after a bit of grumbling slices open his palm and lets the blood drip onto the flame. Instead of going out the flame burns black and that, according to the book, is the signal to begin reciting the spell.

            “O potens daemonium potentior super omnes deos. Pacisci velim meum trado.” He recites. The last part is the most difficult to say. The words burn his mouth and tumble out awkwardly as if they were not meant to be spoken by man, “OLANI OL DONASDOGAMATASTOS.”**

            A cloud of ash billows over him blinding him momentarily and burning his lungs. When he can see again he is faced with tall lean man who seems to be mostly sharp angles. The man is looking around curiously, yellow slitted eyes taking in every detail.

            “Not bad. Not bad at all,” he murmers to himself. The summoner coughs politely. The strange eyed man brings his attention back to the summoner.

            “I…I um…I want to make a deal” the man says after a few false starts.

            “Of course you do. You wouldn’t have summoned me if you hadn’t” the demon, who had a name but wasn’t very fond of it and wasn’t sure what to call himself instead, says growing bored with man and letting his eyes wander around the library some more.

            “Oh…Don’t you want to hear what it is?”

            “Not particularly, but since you’re going to tell me anyway, sure.”

            The man frowns. This demon wasn’t at all like he was expecting. There was no calling him ‘master’ or overdramatic gestures. It was actually anti-climactic in his opinion, but he pressed on anyways.

            “So there’s this girl. She’s beautiful and kind and–”

            “And you want me to make her fall in love with you,” the demon interrupts unimpressed.

            “No! She already loves me, but her father doesn’t approve.”

            “So I make her father approve the marriage, got it,” the demon says, “is there any place to eat around her?”

            “Um…across the street” the man says.

The demon suddenly tilts his head as if he’s just hearing a very faint noise and swears, “There are angels around. You summoned me when there were angels around.”

            “Um…I’m sorry?” the man says confused.

            “Ok let’s seal this deal quick. You’re soul for the marriage of the girl of your dreams. You get 10 years before the hounds come knocking deal?” The demon says quickly but still business-like.

            “Deal” the man agrees. The demon grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a quick kiss, “Hate to kiss and run, but I gotta go.”

            The demon hurries away leaving a very confused human in his wake.

            The demon almost makes it to freedom. He’s so close he can see the exit and hear the rattling of carts outside. He actually believes he’s going to make it out undetected when he hears a voice behind him, “Demon.”

            He swears quietly and puts on his most charming smile before turning around. There’s three of them and they aren’t as intimidating as he had been expecting. One had the vessel of a tavern boy and was still wearing his food stained apron. The demon’s nose wrinkled in disgust. One was pudgy in an adorable way that probably made old women want to pinch his cheeks, and the final one very much needed to be introduced to a comb. All three looked at him with varying levels of nervousness. Clearly these weren’t the type to leave heaven often.

            “Can I help you?” He asks.

            “What were you doing?” the one with the unruly hair asks, glaring at him.

            “Jussst making a minor businessss transaction.” He hisses. He hadn’t meant to hiss, it was a nervous tick and being confronted with three angels was definitely enough to make him nervous. Thankfully the angels didn’t seem to realize this and seemed a bit uncomfortable with the hissing.

            “He sold his soul to you,” the chubby one guesses. The demon grins at him and nods, flicking his forked tongue out just for the amusement of watching the angels flinch back.

            “Give it back to him,” the one the demon had dubbed ‘Unruly Hair’ growls. Tavern Boy and Chubby Cheeks nod, righteous anger beginning to overcome fear in their expressions.

            “No way,” the demon scoffs. He can practically feel the holy energy radiating off the trio and decides a quick getaway is in order. He winks at them and transforms into a snake. Startled the trio jump back, and a curtain innocently hanging behind Chubby Cheeks bursts into flames.

            “…Ooops,” Chubby Cheeks mutters.

            The demon uses the fire as a distraction to escape while the angels stay behind to try and put out the rapidly expanding fire.

            “Can’t you get it under control?” Samandriel asks trying to beat out the flames with a book.

            “I can’t help it. It just happens.” Aziraphale says blushing as he tries to smother the flames.

            “Samandriel get the humans out.” Castiel commands, “Aziraphale find Balthazar. We should inform Gabriel of our…confrontation with the demon.”

            “But what about the books?” Aziraphale asks worriedly as Samandriel drags him away. Castiel sighs and grabs a few books on how way out to report to Gabriel.

            When Gabriel hears about the confrontation he laughs, Michael is less amused. For Aziraphale’s sake the story is modified slightly so that the demon overturned a candle when escaping. Fortunately, despite the suspicious looks Michael accepts their story and none of them are punished.

            Within weeks Gabriel is already planning another trip to Earth, and Balthazar is sneaking off the tavern. The others are significantly less enthralled by the pale blue dot.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Oh powerful demon, who is more powerful than all the gods. I surrender my soul for I wish to make a deal.  
> **I give myself to hell


	5. Bethlehem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel welcomes the birth of baby Jesus.

            “That’s the son of God?” Uriel asked scornfully peaking in at the tiny family. In the woman’s arms a newborn baby was happily dozing.

            “Yes, isn’t the whole family just perfect?” Anneal asks happily. Uriel takes another look in at the family to confirm that he and his sister are, in fact, looking at the same family.

            “No,” he says flatly. Anneal glares at him before going back to observing the family.

            “This is boring, when are the next guards going to get here?” he complains.

            “At dawn, and if you’re so bored go scout the perimeter or something.”

            As Uriel flies off Anneal goes back to quietly watching. The man has taken the baby so that the woman can get some rest and is now playing with the baby. The baby watches intently as the man moves his finger in front of his face. Every once in a while the baby tries to grab it but misses wildly. Bored with this game the baby whimpers and squirms. The man laughs and bounces the baby until he is soothed once again. The family spends the night in peace, blissfully unaware of the guards stationed outside.

            The sky grows steadily lighter and with it Uriel steadily moodier. “Where are they?” he complains again. Anneal continues to ignore him, although it is unlike Castiel to be late. The family is already beginning to wake up. Well the baby is at least but after a few minutes of wailing the family and all the animals are also awake. Uriel is looking wrathful and even Anneal wrinkles her nose at the noise.

            The family is just beginning breakfast when Castiel arrives. Uriel looks torn between hugging him for finally arriving and murdering him for being late. Noticing Uriel’s expression is hinting strongly at his untimely demise Castiel hastens to apologize.

            “I’m sorry for my tardiness.”

            “Get lost?” Uriel sneered.

            “No,” which wasn’t entirely true as he had gotten slightly lost around Jerusalem, “I was called in for a meeting.”

            “By who?” Anneal asks finally tearing herself away from the family.

            “Ion said it was urgent. He took me to the meeting room but nobody was there.” Castiel explains.

            Uriel scoffs, “Ion is constantly doing that. Getting all excited for things only for him to get the time or location wrong and leave you sitting in an empty room.”

            “Be respectful,” Anneal chastises, “he’s much higher ranked than any of us.”

            Uriel grunts and flairs out his wings, “can we go now?”

            Anneal casts the family one last longing look before spreading her wings as well. Castiel watches them take off and soar higher and higher before disappearing altogether amidst the clouds.  

            He takes Anneal’s place by the entrance and impassively watches the family. There was a time not long ago when he would be nearly as excited as Anneal to see a human family up close. There was also a time when he would have questioned whether it was fair to force such a fate on a tiny unsuspecting baby. Humans were fragile at the best of times and putting one man in charge of all the souls had seemed reckless and monumentally unfair to the baby. No human should bare that kind of burden. Castiel had questioned it, had demanded to speak to father, had toed the line of blasphemy to protest on behalf of one child…and then he hadn’t.

            He wasn’t surprised by this, nor were his siblings. Castiels passionate defense on behalf of the humans followed by complete apathy was a regular occurrence. Only Aziraphale seemed bothered by this anymore and it was getting progressively rarer to see him outside of heaven’s library.

            The day passes relatively uneventfully. A little bit after noon the baby smiles for the first time which was apparently cause for much celebration amongst the humans. Castiel watches them fondly feeling a small bubble of warmth forming in his chest, which is almost instantly squashed by a distractingly sharp pain in his head. He straightens up and scans the landscape for signs of a threat. There is none, but he continues to stand at ridged attention anyway.

            The man goes into town, walking right past Castiel without noticing him. The mother and the baby both settle down for an afternoon nap. With the place empty and his curiousity getting the better of him Castiel ventures a look inside. The mother is sound asleep, not that she would have been able to see him anyway, the baby decidedly less so. The baby coos and watches a bit of dust float by. Then the baby turns his attention to Castiel.

            Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise. The baby couldn’t, or at least shouldn’t be able to, see him. Of course, being the Earthly Son of God, none of the angels were entirely sure what that entailed so perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised that the baby could see him.

            “Hello,” he says to his half-brother.

              The baby gives him a smile, and in that moment, Castiel could understand what all the fuss had been about. He smiles shyly back which seems to amuse the baby. He reaches out touches the baby’s cheek. It’s soft and the action elicits anther smile from the baby.

            The warmth in his chest returns, once again followed by the pain in his head. When the pain clears Castiel raises his head to look at the baby impassively to find the baby staring back with a very unbaby like expression on his face. The face makes Castiel uncomfortable, like he has done something wrong but he isn’t sure what. The baby reaches out to him and unsure of what to do and not wanting to wake the mother Castiel picks the baby up. The smile reappears as the unnerving unbaby like expression melts away. Castiel marvels at how small and delicate his half-brother is. Footsteps alert Castiel that the man is returning and he gently lays the baby back in his mother’s arms.  The man walks past Castiel oblivious as Castiel slips out to re-station himself at his post.

            When he is relieved from his duties at sunset, Castiel gives the family one last look. The baby looks over his mother’s shoulder and meets his eye. He gives Castiel a searching look and then apparently satisfied, the biggest smile Castiel has seen yet out of him. The bubble of warmth returns, and this time there is no accompanying pain. 


	6. Jerusalem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Aziraphale pay their respects to a martyr.

It is thirty years before Castiel returns to earth. Not much has changed since his last visit. The only noticeable difference was that tensions between the Romans and the Jews had gotten noticeably worse. Crucifixions had become increasingly more popular as had the practice of throwing dissenters of all varieties towards the lions. Castiel sighs at humans’ proclivity towards violence as well as their unfortunate habit of dragging normally peaceful species into the fray. He shakes his head in wonderment at the cruelties of man as he makes his way through town.

            The town is crowded and Castiel is shoved, elbowed, and at one point bit by an impatient child as he continues on his journey. The noisy and smelly town is vastly different than the organized paradise that is heaven and more than once he considers giving up and going back, but he came down to earth for a reason and he knows that he won’t be returning to heaven until he sees what he came to see for himself. Besides, he reminds himself, humans are capable of amazing feats of love and kindness if one looks hard enough, and with that in mind Castiel resolved to look deeper at all the human interactions he encountered.

            After an hour, Castiel is forced to consider that maybe he just wasn’t looking in the right places. So far he had witnessed two incidents of pickpocketing, one incident of domestic violence, and various acts of pettiness and rudeness. He turns his attention towards the children hoping to catch a glimpse of that famed human kindness. He sees a group of boys no older than ten huddled around something and laughing. Castiel allows himself a small smile at the sound of their laughter as he walks over to catch a glimpse of whatever is providing them with such amusement.

            Seconds later he feels the smile slip from his face. Within the circle of five boys a mangy cat mewled pitifully. Its fur is matted and dirty and its left ear is ragged. The boys entertain themselves by pulling on its tail making it screech.

            “Leave that poor beast alone,” Castiel shouts. His vessel is that of a large man and the boys hastily flee. The cat also staggers up as if to escape but Castiel is much faster. He scoops up the cat and pets it between the ears. As he does so he lets his healing energy flow into the animal. Now it should be pointed out that this cat has had a very hard life up to this point. It has lived on the street its whole life, it has been chased by other cats, dogs, and people. It has been shouted at, hit, and had things thrown at it. Therefore when it found itself being picked up by this man-like being that most definitely not a human it did the only sensible thing it could do. It swiped viciously at Castiel’s face with its claws and when Castiel dropped him out of pure surprise, the cat scampered away.

            Castiel reminds himself that it is unangelic behavior to swear as he wipes the thin lines of blood from his face. Fortunately his journey takes him outside the city and as the crowds thin he manages to convince himself that as long as he doesn’t have to interact too closely with humans he can still appreciate and love them.

            He’s quite far outside the city and there’s no one around. It would be quite easy to fly from here without anyone noticing, but Castiel finds despite how horrible this trip has been he is in no hurry to end it any faster than necessary. In the distance three crosses loom ominously, and at the base of them a figure stands.

            “Hello Castiel,” Aziraphale greets as Castiel makes his way up the hill. His vessel is that of a young man, barely past childhood, and dark hair that kept getting in his eyes.

            “What are you doing here?” Castiel asks, his vessel towering over his older brother.

            “Just had to see it for myself I suppose,” Aziraphale muses.

            In silence they stare up at the body on the cross. The soul is already in heaven and both brothers can feel the holy celebrations radiating from their home as their siblings welcome their half-brother home.

            “Their celebrations are premature. He’ll be back down here in three days.” Castiel says as he watches blood drip slowly from pierced hands.

            “They aren’t celebrating for him. They’re celebrating how humanities sins have been forgiven,” Aziraphale explains patiently.

            “Thanks to this one man,” Castiel says.

            “All a part of fathers plan,” Aziraphale nods. They lapse into silence as Castiel carefully chooses his next words.

            “Do you think that it was…fair…that one man should be used as a pawn like that.”

            “What do you mean?” Aziraphale asks turning to meet his brother’s eyes.

            “If father desired he could have forgiven humanity without the sacrifice,” Castiel says quietly knowing he is coming close to talking about things most angels would rather ignore, but he felt out of all his siblings Aziraphale would be the most willing to listen.        

            “Perhaps, but I suppose he wanted to see whether humanity deserved to be forgiven.”

            “And killing one of their own proves they deserve forgiveness?” Castiel raises an eyebrow.

            “No, of course not.” Aziraphale huffs, “But Jesus didn’t have to die. He could have escaped but he chose to die, because he believed humanity was worth being saved.”

            Castiel stares up at the shell of a man still nailed to the cross. The way Aziraphale explained him made him sound wise and brave and Godly, but the figure on the cross didn’t look like that. He looked like he had died in pain and afraid, and most of all he looked very human.

            “That was very noble of him,” Castiel says because he knows Aziraphale expected a response.

            Aziraphale nods in agreement, “Well I best be off. Don’t stay down here too long, the others will wonder where you are.”

            Castiel nods vaguely still staring up at the cross as Aziraphale spreads his wings. He has no doubt that what Aziraphale said was true. From what Castiel remembered in those brief moments he had spent with him as a baby Jesus was far wiser than any human or angel. Perhaps he had a better grasp of the ineffable plan as well. Still, there was something just unfair in Castiel’s opinion about raising him for slaughter. With his supernatural wisdom and intelligence Jesus could have advanced and enlightened the humans. Killing him, even if he was willing, seemed a waste of a life.

However, Castiel decides with a shrug, it was hardly his place to question The Plan. 


	7. Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in so long. School and a family emergency kept me pretty busy these last few months, but to make up for it this chapter is longer than usual. Tell me what you think.

Heaven

            “Are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?” Raphael asks for the third time since the meeting began.

            “For the last time, no he did not say where he was going, he did not say how long he would be gone and no he didn’t even _hint_ to where he _might possibly_ disappear to.” Michael growls, massaging his temples in frustration.

            Raphael frowns as he attempts to think of another way he can reword the question. Michael cuts him off before he can follow that train of thought too far.

            “Where is Gabriel? He is late. Again.”

            “Last I heard he was in the Scandinavia region dealing with some pagan gods.” Raphael sniffed, “Don’t know why he felt the need to take care of it personally, one of our lower garrisons easily could have handled it.”

            The door swings open with a bang as Gabriel stumbles in and smiles tipsily at his brothers, “Dad home yet?”

            “No he’s not. Now sober up.” Michael glares. Gabriel frowns as the alcohol evaporates from his system.

            “Dad has never been gone this long, are you sure he didn’t tell you—”

            Michael slams his hands on the desk, “No. I don’t know where Father is. If I did I would have said something.”

            “Sorry,” Gabriel mutters.

            “Metatron has also gone missing now.” Raphael adds miserably.

            “What do you mean ‘gone?’” Gabriel narrows his eyes.

            “We think he left to search for Father. He went to Earth, immediately lost the angel who was trailing him, put up angel warding spells and hasn’t been seen since.” Michael sighs.

            “Shame. He could have been useful in our search for Father.” Raphael adds.

            “Doubt it, not if Dad doesn’t want to be found.” Gabriel says getting up, “So, meeting adjourned?”

            “Not so fast Gabriel,” Michael stops him, “I have a message for you to take back to Earth.”

            “Oh boy,” Gabriel says rolling his eyes.

            “If we can’t find Father, perhaps we can convince Father to come back home.” Michael says, “Tell Pope Urban that he is to reclaim Jerusalem in the name of heaven.”

            Why?” Scoffs Gabriel, “You know Father doesn’t care who is controlling the Holy Lands. Christians, Jews, Muslims, it’s all the same to him.”

            “That’s why we’re not claiming it for Christianity we’re claiming it for _us_. A walled city just for Angels. Heaven on Earth.”

            “Like the Garden?” Gabriel asks slowly.

            “Exactly, you remember how fond of it Father was. When it was around he spent more time there than he did here, and he was so upset to have to destroy it.”

            “If it’s for us, why don’t we take it back instead of making the humans doing it for us?” Gabriel asks.

            “You know how angry Father is when we smite his pets. Better to let them do the slaughtering.”   

            “I don’t like this plan.”

            “I didn’t ask for your approval. I gave you a command, now follow it.” Michael snarls. For a moment it looks like Gabriel is about to argue but instead he schools his face into a neutral expression and salutes, “I’ll be on my way now.”

            ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

             “Their slaughtering each other down there.” Gabriel bellows.

             “When are they ever not slaughtering each other?” Michael asks infuriatingly calm. Gabriel imagines personally wiping that calm expression off his face.

            “You think Dad will be pleased?”

            “I think he will happy to have something reminiscent of the Garden back on Earth.” Michael replies looking a bit too smug, “Besides it won’t last much longer. Raphael predicts that within the month they will have captured Jerusalem in our name.”

            Gabriel scowls, a once unusual facial expression for him that has become increasingly common. He looks out over the pristine white landscape of heaven, another thing that has become increasingly common. In the beginning Heaven was as colorful as the garden, bursting with colors that didn’t even exist on Earth. Since Father’s departure color had slowly been fading from every surface as if being pulled away from heaven. Gabriel liked to think that the color was merely relocating itself to wherever Father had settled down.

            Michael likes the whiteness. He thinks it looked cleaner. Humans would probably think it looked purer too, but Michael knew better. Heaven was the center of purity regardless of color. Even coloring every square inch of it in a garish puke green could neither add nor detract from its purity. Still the white was a nice improvement, it seemed to encourage efficiency and order. Gabriel agreed on all accounts, which is why he hated the new color scheme of Heaven.  

            Raphael strides in. He doesn’t think much about the color scheme one way or the other. Though if he was forced to think about it he would say that Heaven would look nice in powder blue.

            “It’s done. Jerusalem has fallen to the crusaders.”

            “Excellent.” Michael says clapping his hands together excitedly, “Gabriel, go down and visit the Pope immediately. Tell him the wonderful news and that he should have his crusaders promptly begin evacuations.”

            Gabriel considers introducing some choice words he had learned during his recent encounters with some pagan gods but ultimately decides against it. Michael would hardly appreciate the creative insults anyway. He does take care when spreading his wings to take off to nearly knock Michael off his feet. He laughs as he Michael’s (uncreative) insults follow him back to Earth.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Pope’s Private Bedchambers

           As humans, especially very religious humans, tended to panic in the presence of angels, Gabriel had long ago decided that the best way to appear to humans was in their dreams. Thankfully humans loved the sin of sloth more than any other sin, so Gabriel never had to wait long for his chosen human to fall asleep.

           Invisible he entered the Popes private bedchambers and touched his forehead. The trip between reality and dreams was quick and Gabriel found himself standing unsurprisingly in a cathedral. What was surprising was that it was the most colorful church Gabriel had ever seen. That was unexpected from a pope who thought that adding tan to his wardrobe counted as a bold color fashion choice.

           “Isn’t it lovely?” Gabriel turns around to find Pope Urban walking across the alter admiring the stain glass mural that dominated the front wall of the church.   

            “…Gorgeous,” Gabriel says examining the tie-dyed pews closer, “a bit brighter than your usual dreams.”

            “I didn’t do this,” Pope Urban laughs, which was almost as surprising as the colorful church, “God added the colors when he appeared.”

            Gabriel whips his head around so fast he hears his neck crack, “Fath—God visited you?”

            “Of course,” Pope Urban says blinking in surprise, “Didn’t you know God would be visiting?”

            “Um…” Gabriel stumbles over his words, “Yeah, of course…I just thought that he would be visiting after me.”

            Gabriel gives him his most charming smile as Pope Urban looks at him suspiciously.

            “So I guess I’m just here to make sure you fully understood God’s message.” Gabriel adds quickly.

            “Of course I understood it. It wasn’t a very complex message.” Pope Urban says. He looks rather unimpressed by Gabriel. It was quit disappointing, he had imagined angels as being wise and serene. This one was neither.

            “So just so everyone is clear on the message, what did God tell you?” Gabriel asks.

            “He said that Jerusalem is to remain in the hands of good men, and he was very clear that under no circumstances should it be surrendered to anyone else.” The Pope says slowly as if talking to a rather dull child.

            Gabriel grins, “What a wonderful message. Praise God.”

            “Praise God,” the Pope responds enthusiastically.

            Gabriel leaves the Pope to his multicolored cathedral that looked more like heaven than heaven currently did to report back to Michael.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Heaven: two centuries later

            “This is the fifth…”

            “Actually I believe they are on their sixth…”

            “This is ridiculous, Father didn’t even want one and now we are on our sixth crusade?” Gabriel says angrily.

            “It’s not our fault, we didn’t command any others but the first one.” Raphael says defensively.

            “But we aren’t stopping them either. Just let me go down. Let me tell them that this was just a big misunderstanding.” Gabriel begs.

            Raphael shakes his head, “It’s not our place to get involved. Father made that quite clear with Pope Urban.”

            “Yes, but I’m pretty sure that the Pope misinterpreted his message to mean Christians not humans in general, and it’s just a silly small thing. I can correct it two minutes if you just let me.” Gabriel says quickly.

            The door opens with the bang and Michael storms in looking furious. He usually looked furious these days.

            “Hey bro,” Gabriel says, “So Raphael and I were just deciding that this crusades business is really getting old, so I’m just going to pop down to Earth and fix it. I’ll see you later.” Gabriel starts casually walking as quickly towards the door as he can.

            “No Gabriel. You are not to interfere.” Michael says quietly.

            “Why not? This isn’t what father wanted.” Gabriel glares.

            “It doesn’t matter. If father wants them to stop bad enough he can tell the Pope himself. He’s already proven he doesn’t mind showing up on _their_ behalf.” Michael says with disgust. Gabriel gapes at him and Michael meets his eyes coldly. Raphael won’t look at him at all.

            “Fine. If you excuse me I think I’ll go study the scripture. James 4:17 seems appropriate.” Gabriel says in a falsely cheery voice as he storms for the door.

            “Don’t get involved with the crusades.” Michael warns. Gabriel doesn’t respond. He flies over the Earth. He briefly contemplates going to the Holy Lands, for the mere joy of spiting Michael but after a rare moment of common sense he decides he’d rather not deal with a seriously angry Michael of Heaven’s reeducation program. Instead he heads towards a place he hasn’t been in a while. Christianity has barely set in there, and Pagan gods and goddesses still roam freely among the humans, and it’s one of the most colorful places he’s seen on Earth in a long time.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James 4:17   
> So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.


	8. England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick trip to England to deal with a certain book of prophecies

        Raphael was having a bad day. Michael had been in a temper with him over the training schedule for the garrisons; something that had been originally Gabriel’s job. Raphael had picked up the slack centuries ago after Gabriel pulled a dad on them, but had never quite got the hang of it. Now to make matters worse there were tales of a human prophet making completely accurate prophecies. She wasn’t one of the official prophets as Raphael was sure there wasn’t a prophet named Agnes anywhere in history. It was a dreadful name in his opinion. However, she bore all the markings of a true prophet, which could only mean that father was once again pulling strings from afar, while still refusing to contact his increasingly desperate children.

        Fine, if that was the father wanted to play, then so be it. Michael had declared her an unofficial prophet in the eyes of heaven, since father wasn’t around to tell him he couldn’t. All of her books were to be destroyed save for one which would be kept in the library of heaven, for research purposes only. He had been just about to leave when Michael had started scolding him for his flawed training schedule, which meant he would need to spend the evening rewriting it. No matter, he was sure he could find a few underlings to do the job for him.

 

        Aziraphale saw Castiel waiting outside Raphael’s office and bit back a groan. Castiel was a very sweet, if a bit odd, boy in Aziraphale’s opinion but if he had been summoned to the office as well than Aziraphale lost any hope that this would be a positive meeting. Raphael seemed to have had it out for Castiel since the garden.

        Castiel gives him a nod, holding an identical summoning notice to the one tucked away in Aziraphale’s pocket. They awkwardly wait outside, both trying to figure out what they did that would have gotten them both in trouble. Aziraphale is sure that Raphael is purposely making them wait to draw out their torment and had just resorted to mentally cataloguing all the books in Heaven’s library, where he worked, when the door opens. Raphael stands framed imposingly in the doorway.

        “Aziraphale, Castiel,” he greets both with a nod and steps aside to allow them into his office. Castiel and Aziraphale enter and take seats in the uncomfortable wooden front of a large desk. Raphael sits in the padded chair behind the desk and surveys his brothers before smiling reassuringly.

        “Don’t worry boys, you aren’t in trouble.”

        Both Aziraphale and Castiel breathe a sigh of relief.

        “In fact you two have been chosen for the task of destroying all the blasphemous works of the false prophet Agnes Nutter. Save only one copy and take it to Heaven’s library. We can put it in the false prophecy section.” Raphael says.

        “Of course,” Castiel says obediently. Aziraphale looks a little less sure.

        “Um…excuse me,” Aziraphale says timidly.

        “Yes?” Raphael raises an eyebrow at him.

        “You want us to destroy books?”

        “Yes, I believe I made myself quite clear. They are blasphemous.”

        “They’re harmless and many humans make inaccurate prophecies and we don’t burn their books,” Aziraphale argues, his voice stronger now.

        “Are you questioning a direct order from a superior?” Raphael asks dangerously.

        Aziraphale quickly looks down, “No sir.”

        “Good, then off you go. I don’t expect this to take long,” Raphael says dismissing them.

 

         They fly to Earth. Aziraphale quickly procures the vessel of an elderly man with deep set wrinkles and snowy hair. Castiel has a bit of trouble getting his vessel and eventually has to settle for his vessels younger brother who has just turned twelve.

        “It’s not so bad,” Aziraphale tries to assure him, “it’s not like we will be getting into any battles this mission.”

        “It’s short,” Castiel complains. He frowns as his voice cracks and Aziraphale quickly hides a smile.

        They go to the only bookstore known to sell her books and talk to the young clerk at the desk. Cas keeps a firm grip on Aziraphale’s sleeve to keep him from wandering off in the bookstore. They are both were relieved to find that the book was wildly unpopular and hadn’t sold a single one. The unsold copies sit stacked away in a back corner of the shop, gathering dust. The angels hastily excuse themselves. They walk around the town waiting until evening when the shop will be closed. As they wait they watch the town prepare for an event. Wood is gathered and brought to the city square and piled in the center. The whole town buzzes with excitement.

        “Perhaps we will see a traditional festival.” Aziraphale says happily. Unfortunately after the townspeople have finished piling up on wood they drift back into their homes or to pubs leaving Aziraphale and Cas as the only two left. Dusk falls over the town and there’s still no hint of a festival. The brothers make their way back to the now closed bookstore.

        “Look at all the books!” Aziraphale says as soon as they enter, excitedly picking up a bible and thumbing through it, “fiction, nonfiction, books on faith, books on science…look Castiel.” Aziraphale proudly holds up a book titled “The Hidden Science of Medicine.” He opens to a random page and reads through it.  
        “It’s not completely accurate…but they are trying so hard.”

        Castiel lets Aziraphale wander the store as he brings book after book outside until he has a neat little pile of “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.” By the time Castiel has finished Aziraphale has joined him outside, this time with a book inaccurately describing life in ancient Egypt. Cas takes one book from the pile and hands it to him.

        “I trust you can take this to the library,” Cas says. Aziraphale nods and clutched the book protectively to his chest and stares sadly at the rest of the books lying helplessly in the dirt.

        “It seems such a shame to destroy them all. Making books isn’t an easy process.” Aziraphale says.

        Cas shrugs, “They weren’t being sold anyway. In a way we are helping by freeing up space for more books.”

        Aziraphale looks slightly mollified but mutters, “some may argue that it is better that shops don’t sell all their books. Somebody has to keep the books in good condition; it’s not like the casual reader is going to do it.”

        Cas ignores the comment, “the only book we need to get is the author’s copy. I will get it and you can start the fire.”

        “No, I’ll go get it,” Aziraphale volunteers quickly. Cas gives him a suspicious look but nods. Aziraphale smiles and disappears, leaving Cas to dispose of the books by himself. He gives the shop one last once over to make sure he didn’t miss a book and then with a wave incinerates the pile, leaving only a scorched patch of land as evidence of their tampering. Aziraphale returns moments later.

        “Did you get the book?”

        “Yes,” Aziraphale says a little bit too quickly.

        “Good. Give it to me and I will destroy it.”

        “No need. I..um..I already did it.” Aziraphale says in that same too quick manner.

        It is a known fact that angels by nature are not very good liars, and Castiel is particularly bad at both lying and detecting lies, but even he can see that Aziraphale isn’t being truthful. He surveys Aziraphale thoughtfully and Aziraphale meets his eyes stubbornly, daring him to call him out. Castiel pretends to be as oblivious as he is often accused of being.

        "Good. Than are mission is complete,” he says blandly. Aziraphale sags slightly in relief. Just as they are about to leave for Heaven they see a procession making their way towards them. A priest is in the lead shouting the Lord’s Prayer forcefully, while a judge and a constable follow closely behind. A frail looking young woman in chains walks behind them being flanked by two beefy guards. Various townspeople follow behind shouting things at her and occasionally throwing rotten food at her.

        If it had been any other two angels to witness the scene they would have merely continued on their way to heaven. Perhaps they would have spared the poor woman a pitying or disgusted look depending on the angel, but she was not their mission, and therefore not their concern. But these two particular angels had always been slightly different, and thus with only a moment’s hesitation to silently glance at each other the two angels slip into the crowd. They follow it to the center of town.

        The pile of wood from the afternoon sits in the middle of the town, now with a large pole in the center of it. The woman is chained to the pole by the guards while the priest continues to drone on in Latin. When they are finished the judge steps up and the priest finally stops praying. The crowd quiets down as well, all waiting with bated breath for the official charges to be read. The judge takes a deep breath, reveling in the suspense and attention, before listing the charges.

        “Mrs. Sarah Bartle is hereby charged with the use of witchcraft to destroy crops, and cause illnesses throughout the town. She has adultered with the devil and sold her soul to hell. For these crimes the punishment is death by burning.”

        The crowd screams in delight, drowning out her pleas for mercy. The angels watch as a flame is lit. Castiel makes a movement as if he plans to storm the crowd but is stopped by Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder.

        “She is innocent.” Cas says harshly.

        “Her soul will go to heaven” Aziraphale says halfheartedly.

        “And what of her children? They are orphans with the reputation of having a witch for a mother. They will die.”

        “Raphael would probably say something like ‘then they will enter heaven that much sooner.’ Isn’t that a good thing?” Aziraphale says looking disgusted with himself.

        “No,” Cas mutters attempting to squirm out of his grip, cursing his tiny vessel.

        “If you go up there the only thing you will do is insure that the boy your possessing also gets labeled a witch as well. Then they will both be killed as soon as we leave. We can’t stay here and protect them forever.”

        Cas sighs but stops struggling. His hand twitches ever so slightly. The supposed witch, who had been writhing in agony as flames licked her legs goes limp; dead from a sudden broken neck. Nobody in the crowd seems to notice the “witch’s” lack of response to their torture and Aziraphale pretends not to notice either.

        “Shall we return back to heaven?” He asks.

        Cas nods, not taking his eyes off the motionless witch who is slowly being consumed by fire. They disappear in a flutter of wings.

 

        Not far from where the two angels disappeared, another being appears. The being stands in the center of a crossroads and in the twilight his eyes seem to shine yellow. A young girl, with an even smaller girl by her side watches him nervously.

        He smiles at them reassuringly and even kneels so he can look the little one in the eye as he conjures a sugar treat for her.

        “You make deals?” the larger girl asks.

        “Yessss,” the stranger says drawing out the end in a snake like fashion. The older girl shivers, but the younger one is too distracted sucking on the candy to notice the sudden chill in the air.

        “Good…I want to make a deal.” She says bravely.

        The man shaped being patiently waits for her to continue.

        “I want to make sure that neither me nor my sister is ever accused of being a witch and burnt at the stake. Can you do that?”

        The little one whimpers slightly at the mention of the word “witch.” Mommy was accused of being one, and although the little girl wasn’t sure what a witch was it must be bad because after that they took Mommy away.

        “I can swing that.” He promises.

        “I have to give you my soul now don’t I?” the girl says resignedly, sounding far older than she should.

        “Not now, in ten years.” The man says gently. The girl nods decisively and then leans forward shyly and kisses his cheek. She scampers away quickly dragging her sister along with her.

        The man watches them go before disappearing as well.


	9. The American Colonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The colonies have garnered the attention of both heaven and hell.

            In Aziraphale’s opinion, though he was sure Balthazar privately agreed, the colonies were much less interesting than the other angels made them out to be. Furthermore, it seemed like such a waste of time and energy to go to war over something as innocuous as tea. Alcohol perhaps, but certainly not herb water. Personally, he found the colonists an ungrateful lot. They were blessed, literally, to be a part of the great British Empire and they were about to throw it all away because they got their knickers in a bunch about a quite reasonable tax on a quite commonplace item.

            It seemed however, that Aziraphale was in the minority. The other angels were excitedly talking about all the possibilities the new country would bring, assuming of course that the colonists won the war that seemed to be looming with ever more certainty. And there was great talk about the war and who the victors would be. It was very tiring hearing the same arguments over and over again about which side had the most competent leaders and the better military. Aziraphale was tired of the rather boring debates, and unusually impatient for the humans to sort out the mess themselves. Which is why on one pleasant day after, yet another discussion with Inias about General Washington’s superior horse grooming abilities and how that spelled victory for the colonists, Aziaraphale sets out to resolve the debate once and for all.

Aziraphale makes his way to the heavenly library, set on looking up prophecies that may give clues to the outcome the war.  He thumbs through Nostradamus’s works for a while, and gets quite distracted by some of Mother Shipton’s prophecies, but none of them shed any light on the subject. He glances up from reading a prediction, that if he interprets correctly either means that one day humans will create nuclear energy or that that humans will grow gills, he’s not sure which, to look at one particular book that is shelved away from the rest.

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter”

            The book has a shelf all to itself and it is placed at such an angle as to immediately catch the attention of any who passed by it, unlike the rest of the books that were neatly placed with only their spines showing. The casual observer might believe that the special treatment Agnes’s book received might mean that it is a particularly revered book. That assumption would be completely inaccurate. That book wasn’t placed there in delicate reverence. It was put there with suspicious contempt, and it was kept at the center of attention not out love, but so that Michael could keep an eye on it. He had forbade all angels from reading from the book, and its unique placement would have made its absence immediately apparent if any angel did attempt to disobey the order.

            Aziraphale sighed and returned his stack of books to their proper places. He meandered out of the library, careful to keep his pace slow and unsuspicious. It just wouldn’t do for him to be seen hurrying anywhere without an apparent need. When he finally made it back to his room, after talking the long way and stopping to say hello to several of his kin, he immediately locked the door.

            The idea that heaven had locks on their doors, and the fact that they even had doors in the first place may seem surprising. Both were inventions of Gabriel. At first it was done for the fun of slamming them at odd times and locking siblings out (and sometimes in) their rooms. He also invented buckets for the exact purpose of adding to his door related prank repertoire. However, as Gabriel became more reclusive, he spent more time locked away in his own room than playing door related pranks. Although the archangel was long gone, doors and locks remained.

            Officially, it was because the increased privacy allowed angels to pray and mediate in peace and quiet. In reality, Aziraphale had a sneaking suspicion that many of siblings were using the concept of doors and locks for less holy purposes. Not that he had any right to judge he thought with a flash of guilt. He pushed back the plain blue rug to reveal polished floorboards. He carefully stepped over to the only imperfect floorboard in heaven. A floorboard that while imperfect at performing its duty as a solid piece of floor, was doing quite splendidly in its role as a secret hiding place. It currently housed such contraband as real English tea, a few pieces of chocolate, and even a scrap of clothe with the most alluring pattern Aziraphale had ever seen. He believed it was called tartan. The most dangerous and prized occupant though was a book. A book that looked suspiciously similar to another book currently sitting in heaven’s library. Another phrase for suspiciously similar in this context would be “exact copy,” the author’s copy to be precise.

            Aziraphale holds the book with all the reverence it deserves. He lets his eyes skim over the prophecies, and lets himself bask in the glory of being the only angel in existence to read them. He gently turns the pages until he comes to, what in his best estimate, is the proper point in the book for Agnes to begin making prophecies about current events. He reads:

_Whenn pale faced sons of liberty_

_disguise themselves to party with tea in the harbor_

_than Red shall pass over acting intolerably_

_and causing more tea parties._

 

Aziraphale stares at it, his brow furrowed in confusion, unsure of what to make of it the prophecy. It was how he felt about most of the prophecies in the book. Still he perseveres and flips to the next the page. The next prophecy reads thusly:

_In the Newe City_

_George will beat down the wall of corn_

_And bitter tears will rain_

_In York._

            Azirpahle sighs and pops one of the chocolates in his mouth. He had been to York. It was a very nice place in his opinion, and he knew that both the current British king and one of the lead colony rebels were both named George. It was such an annoyingly common name at the moment. He can’t see either of them holding a particular grudge against corn though… And he highly doubts that York would play a large role in any of the upcoming battles…An hour later, he finally admits that he would have to wait until the actual events happened just like everyone else to find out whether the sun would set on the British Empire in the American Colonies. After one last reverent look at the precious book, Aziraphale replaces it, and the chocolate wrappers back underneath the floorboards. He rolls out the rug again, and surveys his room. Once he deems the room completely ordinary and unsuspicious looking he unlocks his door.

                                                                                                    ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            Crowley shuffles through the pile of papers on his desk and sighs miserably. Some idiotic demon had made a deal to ensure that the rebelling colonies remained under the British Empire’s control, but hell had already made the announcement that some Yank had already sold his soul to ensure the rebellions success. Now they had two conflicting deals on their hands, which made both contracts null and void. As per the rules of hell that meant both men got their souls back and Crowley was the lucky bastard who got to sort through the paperwork.

            A sudden flash of pain in the head was all he got as warning as he was suddenly summoned to Earth. He hated being summoned. He glares at the man standing in the road. He’s a young man, with a narrow face and dark eyes and unruly hair. He has an arrogant look on his face that instantly annoys Crowley. Humans weren’t supposed to look arrogant when summoning a demon, they were supposed to look nervous and anxious, or at the very least surprised that it actually worked. Humans today had no respect.

            “What do you want?” Crowley sighs, “Fame? Fortune? A beautiful lady friend? Bla bla bla.”

            “I want the British Empire to crush the rebels, and make it fast. This impending war nonsense is destroying my business.” The man says, not looking the least bit offended at Crowley’s opening line, and Crowley had the distinct impression that the man hadn’t even paid attention to what the demon had said.

            “No.” Crowley says firmly.

            “No? But I summoned you. You have to do what I say!” The man says angrily. Crowley sighs, he was dealing with one of _those_ types. The types who had never been refused any wish, no matter how costly or just plain dumb and now for some reason assumed that supernatural beings with cosmic powers would just bend to their will like all their human companions. He hated those types.

            “Hell is officially neutral in this war. In fact hell will be neutral in all wars.” Crowley announces, making a note to himself to discuss this his supervisor when he got back to hell.

            “Why? Hell should love wars. There is so much death and destruction. Are you even a demon?” The man sneers.

            Crowley allows some his aura to slip out, immediately causing the area to darken and an unnatural chill to run down the man’s spine. Crowley smirks when the man shivers.

            “Wars are annoying, and they’re bad for business. For every person like you, there’s someone on the opposite side who makes the same wish and it just creates more paperwork. Not to mention the fact that during wars everyone suddenly becomes oh so patriotic and oh so loyal and morally righteous. It’s so much harder to tempt people when they get into their little righteous snits.” Crowley snaps, “Now unless you have a second wish, I think we’re finished. Go bother God if you want the British to win so much.”

            The man continues to stare at him dumbly and Crowley makes a “shooing” motion. The man backs away before turning and running away. Crowley sighs, that was a waste of time. However, now that he was on Earth he might as well cause some trouble and have some fun before returning to the paperwork awaiting him in hell.

            Paperwork, probably his evilest idea yet. He had gotten a commendation for it, and had been rather proud of his creation until hell had started using it on their own people. The worst part was the fact that he was in the awkward position of being high enough on the ranks to have paperwork, but still too low to order a minion to do the work for him. It was extremely frustrating.

            He passes by a tavern that is playing music that is a bit too baldy a bit too loudly for such a quiet town. Deciding that this place was as good as any, and had alcohol, Crowley enters the aging establishment. The music is even louder inside and now accompanied by the howling singing of drunk patrons. Crowley breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with the refreshing taste of sin and vice. He sighs, content in the knowledge that even though he can’t visit Earth as often as he would like the humans are still just as sinful and fun as ever.

            Unfortunately the feeling doesn’t last long. He’s only halfway through enjoying his first drink when he feels the uncomfortable itch of goodness and righteousness between his shoulder blades. It’s annoying, and a little confusing, that someone with those qualities would even be in a tavern like that in the first place. He looks around and sees him sitting in a corner looking incredibly uncomfortable. Crowley smirks and drains the last of his drink.

            “Hey there mate,” Crowley says companionably taking a seat across from the man. The man jumps in surprise and regards Crowley suspiciously. Noticing that the man hasn’t ordered a drink Crowley waves over a waitress.

            “Two beers” Crowley says over the man’s attempts at refusal. The waitress looks tired and not in the mood to deal with disagreeing patrons.

            “Call me back when you actually know what you want to order,” She scowls. Crowley gives the waitress a wink and a tiny dose of demonic mischief.

            “Two beers, coming right up,” she says and she goes off to get the drinks, ignoring the man. The man glares at Crowley who grins back innocently.

            “Why the long face?” Crowley asks, purposefully injecting as much cheer into the question as he could. He knew the “good” types could never be rude to someone who was being so outright friendly to them. That was their greatest weakness. So many good souls could be saved if they were just slightly ruder and told people (or demons) trying to tempt them to just “fuck off.” But no, every year good people got talked into doing horrible things because they were far too polite to just say no.

            The man hesitates, but as Crowley predicted he begins talking, unable to resist a friendly stranger. He introduces himself as John Travers and talks about his family, about his lovely wife and his two disgustingly (Crowley’s opinion not his) sweet children. Then he opens up about his life as a merchant and his inability to find work and how the upcoming war looked set to ruin everything. It was a regular sob story and Crowley had to fight not roll his eyes a few times.

            “Tough luck mate,” Crowley says sympathetically and John looks at him with pathetically sad eyes.

            “I wish there was a way I could help you…actually, no no…I’m sure you wouldn’t…” Crowley says with calculated thoughtfulness.

            “What is it?” John asks with painful innocence.

            “A deal.” Crowley says lowering his voice. John leans forward, “Are you a businessman?”

            “In a way,” Crowley says, “but my deals are a bit more spiritual than most.”

            “Oh, so you are a man of the cloth then.” John says happily. Crowley sighs. Clearly he was going to have to spell it out for John.

            “Actually I’m on the opposite side, but close.” Crowley says and John immediately leans away, looking towards the exit. Before he can get up the waitress arrives with their beers.

            “Drink up. It would be rude to leave now,” Crowley says cheerfully grabbing his drink. John hesitates, but cautiously takes a sip.

            “Tell me John have you prayed about your situation?” Crowley asks.

            “Every night,” John says sincerely.

            “And how has that been working out?”

            John looks ashamed. “Not well,” he admits, “nothing has changed yet, but Pastor Peter just says it takes time.”

            “How much time do you have though? Winter is coming and children eat a lot. Can you afford to keep waiting?” Crowley pushes and John shakes his head.

            “Exactly, and unlike Pastor Peter I can promise results. My side actually follows through on their deals.” Crowley says confidently.

            It takes a few more drinks and some smooth talking on Crowley’s part but before the bartender calls last call Crowley and John have hammered out a deal. As Crowley watches John practically skip home to his wife and children he almost feels bad. Almost.

            John soul has already lost some of that righteous shine and Crowley, although he would never admit it to anyone, feels a little guilty. The man had belonged in heaven, and in Crowley’s opinion, still did. The worst part was that if God really did care even half as much as people like John thought he did, than John never would have needed to sell his soul. God could have protected his family, but he didn’t and now John was going to hell for the very unselfish and downright holy reason of wanting his family to be safe. Some might say that this was just ineffability, but Crowley thought it was just poor planning and worse management on the part of the heavenly host.

            Deals like these reminded Crowley for all the torture and paperwork he had to suffer through as a minion of hell, he had still made the right choice in deciding to fall. Demons might be cruel bastards, but at least they were honest about it. With that comforting thought, Crowley disappears back to hell and the pile of papers sitting on his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break between chapters, real life and some family emergencies took over for a while, but hopefully now that things have settled down again I will be able to update more often.


	10. Multiple locations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World War II from the point of view of various citizens of heaven and hell.

The United States

            World War II held little interest for Metatron. Most current events failed to catch his attention. His view on current events on principle was to ignore them and if they were worth remembering someone would write a book on the subject eventually. However, even he wasn’t completely isolated from the daily reports.

            A little side table radio blasted the bloody results of the most recent battle while Metatron flicks the pages quietly. He smirks slightly when he hears the estimated death total, the highest so far. This war is shaping up to be one of the worst in human history, and he would know. He’s seen them all.

            Metatron liked wars; always filled with so much drama and tragedy. Some of his favorite stories were born out of wars. The advancement of technology only made wars more violent and interesting in his opinion. He miracles up some tea and turns the radio up louder. World War II is shaping up to be long and bloody, and Metatron can’t wait for the stories the survivors will tell.

          

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  Germany

            Gabriel watches from a distance as soldiers harass civilians on the street. He unwraps a lollipop and sucks on it thoughtfully. He had managed to stay out of The Great War, figuring that if humans could just get out some anger there would finally be some peace for a couple of centuries. However only two decades later and this war was already shaping up to be The Great War Sequel; Revenge of the Delusional Maniacs. Gabriel doesn’t like it.

            He has made some discrete inquires and has found zero evidence of hell or heaven’s involvement. Which is frustrating because if hell were somehow involved than he could justify getting involved… But a purely human war; no, he refuses to get drawn into that, no matter what rumors of death camps reach his ears. He has not lived on Earth for centuries undetected, to get discovered now.

            He flicks his wrist and the soldier, who was leering at a young girl with a yellow star on her chest, finds himself stumbling forward into traffic. The sound of metal hitting douchebag is supremely satisfying in Gabriel’s not so humble opinion.

            Gabriel wouldn’t get involved. However, if the occasional would be victim has a miraculous escape, and every once in a while a high ranking Nazi gets their just deserts, who will know the difference. It’s not as much as he could be doing, and he firmly pushes down the voice that says he should be doing more, but it’s more than heaven is doing right now.

 

            ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            Heaven

            Castiel is furious. Though, if he’s furious with the humans fighting below or the angels going about their daily business as if nothing is wrong, he’s not sure. He has already had several arguments with his commanding officer, Anneal, about the possibility of divine intervention. Unfortunately, despite the fact that he knows the war raging below them disgusts her she has remained firm on following orders not to get involved. The only one who seems to agree with his stance on going down to aid the humans is Uriel, and Castiel has a sneaking suspicion that Uriel’s motives are less than altruistic.

            Lost in thought on what arguments he can use to change Anneal’s mind, Castiel pays little attention to where his feet are taking him. It’s only after he shuts a door loudly in frustration and receives a prompt “Shhh” that he realizes he is in the library. Castiel rarely comes to the library, spending most of his time training for battle or spending time with those in his garrison. However he has always found it peaceful.

            Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale is nestled in a back corner with a book in hand. Surprisingly, he was glaring at the book as if it had said something blasphemous about tartan, a far cry from his usual cheerful demeanor. Castiel throws himself into the seat across from him.

            Aziraphale looks up and a little of his usual cheer finds its way into his eyes. “Hello brother,” he greets.

            “Hello” Castiel gives him a strained a smile.

            “Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks setting aside his book. Cas gives him a more genuine smile at the concern evident in his voice.

            “Only that our sibling are ignoring the bloodshed below.” Castiel says, and Aziraphale nods sympathetically.

            “I held my tongue because I was assured that The Great War would be the war to end all wars. Now less than half a century later we have yet another great war on our hands. If we don’t act there won’t be any humans left.  Do you think this is what father wants?” Castiel rants.

            “I agree. Heaven should fight.” Aziraphale says. Castiel raises an eyebrow at heaven’s most peaceful angel advocating war.

            “I like the humans, and I’d rather not see them destroyed because of one failed painter with a grudge against the world.” Aziraphale sniffs.

            “It wouldn’t be difficult, we would only need to take down a few key players and the army would fall apart.” Castiel says thoughtfully.

            “It wouldn’t take long, it’s not like any of them have thought to ward themselves against angels or anything. Two angels could get it done in one night.” Aziraphale adds quietly.

            “I’ll meet you outside your room after evening prayers.” Castiel says as casually as he can getting up and walking away. Aziraphale picks up his book and returns to his reading feeling considerably lighter.

            From behind a bookshelf Ion puts away his book and goes off to inform Naomi of what he has heard. It is worse than they thought. They already knew from repeated comments Castiel had made to his commander that he was a high risk character, but Aziraphale was unexpected. Catching two traitors in one day would make Naomi very pleased.

            That evening after prayers, Castiel never made it to Aziraphale’s room. Aziraphale didn’t notice Castiel’s absence. In fact, if you had asked Aziraphale whether he was expecting a visit from Castiel he would have given you a politely confused look and a shake of the head.    

           

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hell    

            In hell, for the first time in history Crowley volunteers to for torturing souls duty. The screaming souls hurts his ears, and the blood stains his expensive suit, and there isn’t a good glass of scotch to be found, but it’s better than the alternative. Because the alternative is making deals at the crossroads and he just can’t do it anymore. He can’t turn away desperate people hoping to sell their soul to end the war (because hell had actually adopted his proposal to not get involved in deals determining the outcome of wars). Worse than those sorry sods were the ones who were going to hell whether they sold their soul or not. The things they wished for made Crowley shiver in some deep part of his twisted demonic soul. Inventions and techniques of torture that made the Spanish Inquisition look like a group of grumpy old men being slightly judgmental.

            It was horrible and until either the war ended or humans had finally driven themselves to extinction, Crowley wanted nothing to do with Earth. Crowley cuts into another victim, this one had sold her soul during the Great Depression to ensure her children would always have enough to eat. Both sons were recently drafted, one is dead and Crowley doesn’t have much hope that the other son will make it out alive. For some reason he finds he doesn’t have the heart to rub in the fact that her deal had gone to waste. After his shift is done he sits in his pristine office, blood still staining his suit, and wishes he could get drunk.


	11. Kansas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary unknowingly march towards their fates, while in heaven less than holy plans are afoot.

Kansas

            A lovely blonde woman walks determinedly down the dark street. She has a salt incrusted iron knife in the waistband of her jeans just in case, but if tonight goes to plan she won’t be needing it. Her parents, back at the house believe her to be up in her room with a bad head cold. A slight, but necessary lie. Its 6:45, which means she has 15 minutes to get there, but she knows this route like the back of her hand and can make it in 10. Mary Campbell smiles, Operation Hang Out with Friends has commenced.

            Mary can track wendigos, vampires, and ghouls, she knows the signs of a ghostly presence, and even knows the signs of a demonic attack. What Mary doesn’t know is that all that knowledge is effectively useless against the thing currently stalking her. In fact, the thing following her would laugh if she tried to use her knife, or the flask of holy water that she always carries, against it. It has been following her for a while, years in fact, but tonight is the night that it will finally act. Tonight is the night that will change Mary’s life forever, and she doesn’t have a clue. Mary enters the diner where she plans to meet her friends. Unnoticed by everyone, the thing follows her inside. 

            John Winchester needs a drink. Desperately. Thankfully a few army buddies are in town and feel the same way. John slips his army knife into his pocket and barely restrains himself from taking the gun as well. It’s not that he expects tonight to get rowdy, it’s just that old habits die hard and ever since the war he has felt uncomfortably vulnerable without a weapon on him at all times. He laces up his boots, checks his pocket again, and feels the familiar weight of cold steel at his hip, and finally locks the door to the crappy apartment he has been renting the past few weeks.

            He’s running late and he knows it, but somehow he can’t quite feel it in himself to make his feet move any faster. The night is quiet and peaceful, and warm enough that he doesn’t need a jacket. John hates nights like these. They’re too nice, too innocent. Nights like these shouldn’t exist when good men are dying halfway across the world. John considers going back to his apartment and downing the bottle of whiskey he has stashed away…but it’s not often that he gets to see these friends, and he has already gotten pass out drunk by himself twice this week and doing it a third time might mean he has a problem. John keeps moving forward. 

            He enters the small diner and quickly finds his friends well on his way to getting good and wasted. A few tables away Mary laughs with her friends. Neither of them notice the other, or the presence in the room that smiles. The thing raises its weapon, a bow. Two quick shots later John and Mary’s eyes meet. The thing disappears, confident that its work is done.

                                                                                ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Heaven                       

Michael stands in the long abandoned throne room. Despite its emptiness it still echoes with heavenly hymns that haven’t been sang in centuries. It’s peaceful, and one of the last places in heaven that traces of God can still be felt. It is also heavily restricted with only few angels fortunate enough to ever enter. The door swings open.

“Nuriel, report” Michael says without turning to look at the new comer.

“Mary Campbell and John Winchester have both been successfully hit with the arrows. John is buying her a drink as we speak.” Nuriel says.

“Excellent. Give me an estimated timeline.” Michael commands.

“They should be married within two to three years, and your vessel should be born within the first year of the marriage. Lucifer’s vessel should be born not long after.” Nuriel reports.

            Michael nods thoughtfully. A few years until his vessel graces the earth and then a few years more for Lucifer’s vessel. They will of course have to wait for both children to grow up and into their roles, but what’s a few decades when your billions of years old? The time will pass quickly, and there is still so much left to do before the Apocalypse will officially begin.

            “Good work Nuriel. Now if you excuse me, there is important work to be done regarding a certain set of seals.” Michael says, turning his back on the empty throne. Everything is falling neatly into place, even without His presence. Michael can’t help but feel proud, and perhaps borderline smug, at that fact.


	12. Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Hell for Crowley is unpleasantly interrupted.

Hell

            After the events of the 20th century Crowley has found that his attitude on Earth and humanity has soured considerably. He had made excuses for them in the beginning; “They were a new species that didn’t know any better,” “Fire is fun, can you really blame them for using it a bit too enthusiastically?” But this past century had just been too much. It wasn’t the endless wars that seemed to get bigger and bloodier every year, as if there was going to be a prize for being the most destructive war. It wasn’t the financial crises that destroyed families and drove people to extremes. It wasn’t even the invention of Rock’n’Roll, and the band Queen, a  genre and band that always managed to set his teeth on edge that finally did it.

            It was the cynicism. At his core Crowley had always been rather optimistic for a demon, and to see the humans lose their spark had actually been quite disheartening. He didn’t even think it was possible to demoralize an entire species, but that was humanity for you, always full of surprises, and not all of them good.

            Currently Crowley was back in the position of crossroads dealer, and after a particularly smart hunter had dispatched his boss, Hastur, Crowley had even been promoted to King of the Crossroads. He was even enjoying his job again. In fact he was enjoying his job now more than ever. Before he had always felt the barest prickle of guilt in the back of his mind. As if maybe this wasn’t really the right thing; what he was meant to be doing. He had always ignored it of course, but it was a very persistent prickle. However, it seems the events of the past hundred years had effectively squashed it. 

            He sat in his newer, much larger office, and organized the paperwork he was going to send down to his secretary to do. It was a thick stack that was going to require a lot, one might even say an unnecessary large amount, of signatures and initials in confusing places. Crowley was just finishing up the final touches when he felt a slight disturbance. Not a large disturbance, just enough to make him feel a bit on edge. The last time he had felt like this he had been summoned by some rowdy teenagers in the basement of a particularly religious grandmother. It was a holy feeling, and the last type of feeling Crowley expected to be feeling in Hell.

            The alarms going off surprised Crowley for two reasons. One, alarms meant that they were under an attack of some sort, which was crazy because hell hadn’t been under an attack in its entire existence. Two, Crowley hadn’t even known hell had installed an alarm system. Not bothering to think too deeply on the matter Crowley immediately headed deep into the bowels of hell. Whoever was attacking, it was obvious they weren’t too bright and therefore it was doubtful that they would get very far.

            Castiel had never been in hell before now, and he would be quite happy if he never had to go to hell again. It was hot, dark, and an oppressive force of evilness was making itself known right between his shoulder blades. He blocked out the feeling and all other distractions as he rallied his garrison to go deeper. A scream followed by a wet gagging noise tells him that they have lost another angel. He ignores the pain that the death of a sibling causes and pushes on.

            The bowels of hell wasn’t, in Crowley’s opinion, the worst place in hell. Personally he always found the queues for leaving hell in an authorized possessed body to be the most torturous in their tediousness. The bowels were, however, the best protected.  Which is why only minutes after the alarms started Crowley found himself sticking close to Alistair, Hell’s chief torture and resident loony. Crowley would be quite content to let him handle any fighting that needed to be done. Also sticking close to Alistair was his newest apprentice…Dan…Dean…something. Crowley could never remember the newest recruits names, not that it mattered. Most ended up on the wrong end of a powerful exorcism or holy water squirt gun before rising through the ranks enough to be worth noticing. Although, Crowley had heard some interesting things about this one. This one was apparently a natural at torture.

             The itchy feelings of holiness get stronger and some of the lesser demons are beginning to whimper in pain at the ever increasing strength of it. Crowley is just contemplating the fact that maybe the bowels of hell aren’t the best place to be in an attack when the door burst open. Crowley was very fortunate at that moment that he was one of the few fallen angel type demons, rather than the lesser corrupted human soul type demons. The former felt an unpleasant tingling of a bad sunburn and the awkwardness of seeing family members for the first time in over a millennia (it was like the most awkward Thanksgiving dinner imaginable times a thousand), the later felt like they had just been set on fire.

            It was embarrassing at how little of a fight the demons put up. Most of the lesser demons had collapsed in pain and demons who were formerly angels had either fled the moment the door opened or were standing slack jawed at the sight of their siblings. For their part the angels ignore the demons, and Crowley wonders if the angels even recognize them as their former brethren. One of the angels, a captain if by the insignia on his robes, flies straight for the Alistair’s apprentice who rolls around on the ground, ignorant to the angel honing in on him. At first Crowley assumes he was going to smite the poor bastard, but then the captain lays a hand on his shoulder and gently scoops up the soul. The angel brushes the ash and sin from the soul in a gentle way that Crowley has never accredited to angels. The soul shines as the taint of sin is wiped away and the glow is brighter than any human soul Crowley has ever seen before. It is almost as blinding as the angels themselves.

            The captain looks up and for a brief moment his eyes meet Crowley’s and the amount of protectiveness for the soul stuns Crowley. He has never known any angels to feel particularly strongly for humans. Sure they allegedly liked the concept of humanity, but it’s not like they cared about the individual. In fact, Crowley sometimes thought that angels hated humans just as much as demons. How else could they ignore their suffering so efficiently? Then, as quickly as they had come, they left with their prize.

            Crowley had expected more of a ruckus in the aftermath. Angels had just broken in and had stolen Alistair’s new toy out from under his nose. He was sure there would be rage, and punishments flying, and definitely mass firings, but instead there was nothing. Things had settled down rather quickly. Upper management continued sending him commands and requesting reports as if nothing had happened. Even Alistair seemed unbothered by the sudden loss of his apprentice.

            As he sits safely in his office with a new batch of paperwork, Crowley even briefly doubts what he saw, but then he thought of the captain angel and the intense look in his eyes and new that there was no way he could have imagined something that real. There had been genuine love and kindness in his eyes and they had been directed solely at the damaged corrupt soul in his hands. And it’s not like Crowley should care, but he can’t remember a time in his entire life, including when he was an angel, that someone had looked at him like that. If they had, then perhaps Crowley wouldn’t have fallen in with a bad crowd in the first place. He had known they were a bad crowd, even at the time, but with no one to tell him no or tell him that they were concerned for his wellbeing, he just never saw a reason not to fall in with them.

            Then after his fall the closest he ever got having a real friend was the guard angel, who had tolerated his presence. He was cold and awkward, but he occasionally laughed at Crowley’s jokes and it was kind of nice to just sit in silence with him. Of course, any chance of that friendship died when Crowley convinced Eve to eat the apple, but Crowley maintained that it wasn’t really his fault. He was just trying to have a little fun, and maybe if Gadreel had just been able to lighten up…No it was stupid to think about things like that. Crowley was a demon; they didn’t have friends, nor did they want them. Still, it would have been a nice gesture if Gadreel, or any angel really, had bothered to storm hell on his behalf. After all, didn’t he deserve to be saved? If that human did, than surely a former angel such as himself deserves it too.      

            Crowley pours himself a brandy. Yes he was a demon. Yes his job largely consisted of tempting humans into damning their immortal souls for all eternity. But he had a good sense of humor, and he was a very fair businessman who never backed out of deals or gave someone a bad bargain. As far as demons go, Crowley considered himself a cut above the rest. In his opinion that fact alone entitled him to some sort of reward. Crowley slams his drink down. Going down that path of thinking always ended in regret and Crowley refused to have regrets. Not for the fall. Not for the apple. And definitely not for failing to ever truly fit in with the rest of the denizens of hell. The angels didn’t want him and he certainly didn’t want to be a part of heaven, but sometimes…sometimes he didn’t really want to be a part of hell either.


	13. Heaven (Post-Apocalypse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apocalypse has been averted but a Civil War in Heaven is just heating up. Aziraphale and Castiel make their choices.

            News of Michael’s and Lucifer’s defeat at the hands of the Winchesters and Castiel spread through heaven like wildfire. All throughout heaven angels either wept in despair or cheered at the averting of the Apocalypse. For his part, Aziraphale was quite pleased that humanity had been saved; man was such a fascinating species. Although, some small part of him shifted uncomfortably and muttered angrily that Castiel had spit in the face of ineffability.

            He shushed that voice firmly and tried to be happy that one of his favorite brothers was alive, but it was a persistent little voice that had never been tainted by sins or humanity. If he had been stationed on Earth or any period of time, perhaps that voice would have grown more flexible, more open to the idea that ineffability sometimes looked suspiciously like free will. However, Aziraphale’s place was in Heaven’s library, and not on Earth, and he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

            Aziraphale had naively hoped that after the Apocalypse that wasn’t things would return to something resembling normal. Unfortunately it took less than a week for the shock to wear off and for restlessness began to set in. Debates quickly morphed into arguments and then sprinted off the become full-fledged fights. Angels began joining sides and rumors swirled around Raphael’s alleged plans to free Michael and Lucifer from the cage. Tucked away in his corner of the library Aziraphale had managed to avoid a confrontation thus far, although he knew it couldn’t last forever.

            He is therefore unsurprised when he looks up from a particularly compelling book to see Castiel staring at him.

            “Hello brother,” Aziraphale says politely.

            Castiel inclines his head in greeting, “brother.”

            Aziraphale puts his book to the side and waits patiently for Castiel to begin speaking. Castiel takes a few moments to gather his thoughts before jumping right into it.

            “I want you to join my rebellion against Raphael.” Castiel says, and Aziraphale’s lips twitch in fondness at Castiel’s familiar bluntness. The fondness for Castiel and humanity almost make him say yes. Almost. The voice screaming about ineffability gets louder and angrier.

            Aziraphale shakes his head, “I’m a scholar not a fighter.”  

            “All angels are fighters,” Castiel counters.

            “Not me,” Aziraphale insists. He glances wistfully at his book. Most angels would have gotten the hint and left him alone. Castiel plows forward obliviously, “Do you plan to join Raphael?”

            “Of course not. I’m staying far away from both sides.” Aziraphale says indignantly. When he sees Castiel opening his mouth, he picks up his book.

            “Now if you excuse me, I have some reading that I wish to get done.” Aziraphale stares at the page tensely until he hears the flutter of wings and a swish of a coat.

            He looks up. Castiel is gone. Aziraphale closes his book with a sigh. Suddenly reading didn’t sound so appealing. Perhaps meditation would help ease the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was going to end bad for all of them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            Aziraphale wasn’t the first angel to say no to joining Castiel, but if Castiel were totally honest with himself he would admit that Aziraphale’s refusal hurt the most. Out of all the angels, Aziraphale was the one angel Castiel that respected the most. He was patient with and never laughed or got frustrated by Castiel’s lack of tack. However, Aziraphale was right, the battlefield was no place for his “type” of angel.

            As Castiel sat by the garden of his favorite heaven he reviewed the numbers of his army, Raphael’s army, and those remaining neutral. He didn’t like what he saw. The best case scenario would be an all-out massacre where at least the rebels were allowed to die quickly. Castiel didn’t want to think about a worst case scenario…

            Dean would know what to do. He would explain the situation to Dean who would reply with an assumedly witty comment that Castiel wouldn’t understand and a self-assured grin. Then together they would stop the new threat just like they always did.

            Castiel kept repeating that thought and tried to ignore the fact that Dean hadn’t prayed to him in months…that Dean had a real family now…that Dean had given up hunting and would probably hate him if Castiel tried to drag him back into it the lifestyle.

            When Castiel appeared on Earth, Dean was raking leaves…    


	14. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angels are falling and Aziraphale is among them. Now on Earth, he needs a plan.

            Under other circumstances Aziraphale would be quite content to stand at the edge of the lake in St. James Park watching the ducks. In fact, even in these decidedly bad circumstances he finds the park very peaceful and soothing. He could see himself here on lazy summer days, feeding the ducks before spending a quiet evening reading. As long as he doesn’t look up he can pretend that’s what he is doing; just feeding the ducks before going home. As long as he doesn’t acknowledge the angels that our currently falling to Earth, he can even pretend that he still has a home to go to.

            Aziraphale is one of the first angels to crash land on Earth and he considers himself very lucky that he manages to find a vessel so quickly as well. He is currently possessing a middle aged British man who owned a bookstore not far from the park. He was a rather quiet man who liked hot chocolate and a decent meal and thought that any song written after the 1940’s was bebop. Aziraphale liked him the moment the man said yes.

            When an angel crashes into the pond startling the ducks Aziraphale knows it’s time to leave. He finds the city outside of the park loud and chaotic, but somehow still comforting. He supposed the feeling comes from his vessel. The man is a London native through and through. He lets his body’s motor memory decide where he goes while his mind wanders. His situation is bad and he knows it. His wings feel like they are still burning and his head pounds as thousands of angels continue to scream. The worst pain however, is from the profound sadness pulsing though his body, dulling the other pains to vague nuisances. Never before had he felt more cut off from Father and heaven’s power.

            He stops in front of his vessels bookstore, after a moment’s hesitation he keeps walking. As much as he would like to lose himself in a good book and pretend this isn’t happening, there isn’t time. He needs a plan.

            Castiel is the only angel who has spent a significant time on Earth in recent years, and he has a simply wonderful habit of surviving horrid situations. So the first step of Aziraphale’s plan quickly becomes _find Castiel._ He struggles with coming up with a step two, but since he doesn’t know where Castiel is or how to find him, Aziraphale supposes that step two can wait.

            Castiel is usually with the Winchesters when on Earth, and the Winchesters are, to Aziraphale’s knowledge, in the United States. On a different continent. Across the Atlantic Ocean. There was a time when the idea of crossing the Atlantic would have been easy. He could have been there in less than a second. However, as a throbbing ache pulses down his wings, he knows that is not the case anymore.

            He could take a boat…or perhaps one of those newfangled airplanes. It wouldn’t be the same as truly flying but it was the fastest way to get there. Aziraphale searches his vessel’s memory for directions to the nearest airport and then hurries on his way.

            Aziraphale silently curses whatever demon invented airports. For surely no mortal could have created such a hell. The blasted metal detector beeped for a second time and the people in the line behind him groaned and shifted grumpily. Aziraphale made a show of checking his pockets for metal, although he knew it wasn’t metal making the machine go off. It was his grace. It had a habit of disrupting electrical things. He feels himself getting frustrated and only manages to calm himself down when he notices a piece of luggage in front of him has begun smoking slightly. Having a fire episode would end badly for everyone he reminds himself and with a few well-placed miracles he boards the plane.

            If Aziraphale had his choice he would have chosen first class, however his vessel was not a rich man. The man had chosen a simple life filled with the simple pleasures; hot tea, good books, walks in the park…and flying coach. Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably, apparently couch seats were immune to being miracled into something more comfortable. Either that or he was weaker than previously assumed. He looks out the window as the plane begins taking off and, for the first time in his existence, Aziraphale feels nauseous. He can feel every slight bit of turbulence the plane experiences and with every bump that painfully jostles his wings he is reminded that if the plane goes down he will be going down with it.

            “Can I get you anything sir?”

            Aziraphale pulls his gaze away from the clouds flying past the window. A young woman in a steward’s uniform is giving him a friendly, vaguely sympathetic, look.

            “No, no, perfectly fine” Aziraphale assures her.

            “If you need anything just press the call button,” she says and continues down the aisle. He watches her go before letting his eyes drift over the other passengers. A woman who looks like even more of a nervous flyer than him across the aisle. In front of her a man snores quietly. Next to a man sits…Aziraphale feels his stomach drop and it has nothing to do with the turbulence.

            A dark haired man in a trenchcoat sits staring peacefully out the window. Aziraphale lets out a tiny sigh. Although the man shows a remarkable physical resemblance to Castiel’s vessel, down to his questionable fashion choices, the man on the plane is not him. Of course it’s not him, what would Castiel be doing on a plane. Aziraphale mentally scolds himself.

            Castiel was probably with the Winchesters. Castiel always seemed to be with the Winchesters in recent years. While it was good that Castiel was going out and making friends, Aziraphale couldn’t help but to feel a little disapproving of the type of people his baby brother chose to hang out with.

            It wasn’t the fact that they were vessels, after all they had no control over that, and it wasn’t even the fact they had rebelled against their destiny, it was only natural that the humans would be a bit defensive over the potential annihilation of their species. It was the way they treated Castiel, and the way they changed him that bothered Aziraphale the most.

            Castiel had always been a bit of an odd duck amongst the other angels, and although he was one of the best soldiers in the garrison, he was still somewhat sheltered to the ways of the world. The Winchesters never seemed to appreciate that about Castiel. How could they? They expected a hardened heavenly warrior and so that is what Castiel gave them. The Winchesters didn’t know that Castiel had once spent nearly a decade trying to teach fish poetry or that Castiel could spend hours enthusiastically explaining the interesting culture and language of bees. The Winchesters had probably never even heard Castiel laugh, and not just chuckle, but give a full deep _real_ laugh. The Winchesters would never truly understand Castiel, because Castiel would never burden them with the knowledge that he was more than just a soldier standing ever ready to protect them from evil.

            In their ignorance the Winchesters never realized just how much they were hurting Castiel. Their constant calls left the poor dear exhausted. Contrary to popular belief it wasn’t easy to make the flight between heaven and earth…and their habit of having near death experiences every week left Castiel in a constant state of worry.

            Even worse though was the corruption. Aziraphale could see it changing Castiel. The way Castiel began questioning everything, the way he turned his back on siblings. The old Castiel would have never worked with a demon, or opened purgatory, or declared himself God. Sometimes, when it was quiet and he was alone Aziraphale could still hear the cries and smell the burning grace as sibling after sibling fell before Castiel…and now his siblings were screaming again, and once again Castiel was involved.

            Aziraphale wanted to hate the Winchesters for what they did to Castiel, and on some days he came pretty close to it, but when he thought about all the damage heaven had done to Castiel suddenly the Winchesters didn’t seem so bad. Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably as he thought about all the times Castiel had been called away for “unangelic behavior” and how every time he had come back so much colder and harder than before.  Aziraphale had managed to convince himself for centuries that it was for the best. After all, nobody wanted Castiel to end up like Lucifer… It was all for the greater good…  

            Another angel gave a death scream. Heaven had been corrupt, and Aziraphale wasn’t stupid he had known for years that heaven was drifting off the righteous path. He was a coward though. He had hid away in his books and had done nothing about it. Castiel had though. He may not have always done it the right way, but at least he tried and that more than most angels could say. If…no, when Aziraphale found Castiel he would follow him into whatever battle that was to come, and he would apologize for not doing so sooner.

            He could feel the plane descending. The lights of the airport glow brightly. With a slight bump Aziraphale lands in America.       

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than usual, and I had some trouble with it. Tell me what you think of it!


	15. Various States across the US

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's search for Castiel has begun, but angel factions are forming all across the nation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the length between updates. Family tragedy and life have been getting in the way. I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but I think I've made you all wait for an update long enough. Thanks to everyone who has commented or give me kudos!

            New York is not like London. While London’s pace is busy, yet refined, every person hurrying to their next destination with casual haste, New York City is frantic and chaotic. It’s enough to make Aziraphale want to get back on the next flight to England. However, he has given himself a mission, the first mission he has had in a long time, and he plans to see it through.

            Aziraphale goes through the motions of passing through security and gathering his luggage with increasing impatience. If he were human he is sure that he would have a headache by now from the noise and the crush of people that flowed around him and pushed into his personal space. Of course as an angel he has very little concept of personal space, but even he was aware that it was impolite to stand so close to someone that one may rest their head on the other’s shoulder.

            It is a welcome relief to escape to the not so fresh air of the city. Once outside he makes his way to the only place that really feels comforting at the moment. St. Patrick’s Cathedral is locked this late at night, but locked doors hardly mattered to angels, even fallen ones such as Aziraphale. It is dark in the church, humans would have found it oppressively so, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind the dark, in fact he finds it a comforting difference from the shining city lights outside.

            Aziraphale kneels to pray. First he tries praying to Father, but he finds for the first time in his long existence he has nothing to say to him. He can’t even find it within himself to ask for help in finding Castiel, not that he would have expected Father to answer but it is the thought that counts in Aziraphale’s opinion. Next he tries praying to Castiel. After a few fumbled apologies however he is forced to give up. He isn’t even sure if Castiel is getting his prayer.

*~*~*~*~*~*

            The first time Aziraphale hears of Buddy Boyle he is sitting at a bus station in Tennessee wondering how the rest of his siblings are faring in this chaotic unheavenly world. He had been keeping a close eye on the news for signs of angels; miracles, strange disappearances, and murders alike. So far there has been a complete dearth of miracles, and so many disappearances and murders reported in the news that he isn’t sure which ones are due to angelic involvement and which ones stem from common human crime.

            As he skims yet another newspaper for signs, waiting for yet another bus, which will take him to yet another state that still isn’t Kansas, he hears the reverend from the television in the corner. At first he scoffs and pays the television no mind. In his opinion televangelists represent the worst of human worship. They are loud fearmongering opportunists, who preach that one’s soul can be saved for a “small” donation. As if the televangelist had the authority to save someone’s soul. If the angels want someone to be damned there is nothing the televangelist, nor any other human, can do to stop it.  

_“If the angels come a-knockin’ just let them in. Let them fill you up with their grace.”_

            That gets Aziraphales attention and he looks up with surprise and suspicion. It could be flowery rhetoric meant to convince people to open up their hearts and wallets…but Aziraphale knows one or two siblings who don’t share his views on televangelists. Besides Buddy Boyle isn’t too far out of his way. A quick peek just to reassure himself that there is no angelic influence and he can be back on his way to Castiel and the Winchesters.

*~*~*~*~*~*

            Buddy Boyle’s “church” is exactly what Aziraphale imagined of a pompous televangelist. The marble floors gleam impressively, as Aziraphale’s shoes click down the aisle. He wonders just how many homeless people the church could have fed if they had spent the money on food instead of floors. The seating arrangement was more like a small stadium than a church and bright lights light up the stage, Aziraphale refuses to call it an altar.

            Off of the main room of the church is what can only be called a dressing room. Aziraphale internally scoffs at the idea of a reverend needing a dressing room. The name says “Boyle” on the door in gold. Aziraphale thinks it looks horribly gaudy. He knocks on the door on the door anyway.   

            “Hello,” A pudgy man with graying hair opens the door. He’s definitely human, Aziraphale can sense that immediately.

            “Hello, I’m sorry for bothering you. I saw your most recent sermon…the one about letting in the angels…” Aziraphale lets the end of the sentence hang in the air awkwardly. He’s not quite sure how to continue in a way that doesn’t sound like he is accusing the man of tricking innocent humans into becoming vessels for outcast angels.

            “Oh good. Good. Have you come to become one with the angels?” Boyle asks excitedly, oblivious to Aziraphale’s awkwardness.

            “When you say become ‘one with the angels’ what exactly do you mean by that?” Aziraphale asks, hoping that Boyle will just say that it’s part of his rhetoric and Aziraphale can continue on with his original plan.

            “It means exactly what you think it means Aziraphale,” says a voice from behind Aziraphale. He spins around. There is a good looking blonde haired man in a dark blue suit smirking at him.

            “Bartholomew,” Aziraphale greets coldly. Of all the angels, Bartholomew always reminded Aziraphale the most of a televangelist; flashy and self-righteous.

            “Let’s sit down, have a drink, and talk brother” Bartholomew says flashing Aziraphale a pearly white smile. Aziraphale has a bad feeling about this.

~*~*~*~*~*~

            All in all the deal Bartholomew offered had been very fair. In fact, some might have called in downright generous. A minor role in Bartholomew’s newly formed faction, which mostly consisted of doing endless amounts of paperwork, in exchange for Aziraphale’s undying loyalty. Bartholomew had assured him that he would never have to see combat, not even as much as the killing of a human. Of course these things would still happen with regular frequency, but Aziraphale wouldn’t have to witness it.

            It was a tempting offer, but Aziraphale already has a mission, and doesn’t feel fully comfortable with how quickly some of the angels are burning through their vessels. In fact he finds it quite barbaric to so carelessly waste the vessels and the human lives they contained.

            In the end Aziraphale had politely rejected the offer, and Bartholomew had responded by impolitely locking Aziraphale away in their dungeon, without even some paperwork to do to keep him busy. For the most part they left him alone. In the beginning they had given him a little trouble when they found out that he was looking for Castiel, but when they realized that he had no useful information as to where Castiel was, other than a vague theory that he was in Kansas, they gave up trying to pump him for information. Aziraphale had just begun to come to grips with the soul crushing idea that he might never get free, and that he might never find Castiel and apologize, when there is a sudden commotion outside the dungeon door. It seems that Bartholomew has acquired a new prisoner, and Aziraphale a new cellmate.       


	16. Boyle Ministries Inc.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finally has a chance to stretch his legs out of his cell, and the end of stage one of his mission is in sight.

            A young man is haphazardly tossed into the cell with Aziraphale. His clothes are bloody and there are tear streaks down his face. Aziraphale recognizes him as Sariel, one of the younger angels. If Aziraphale remembers correctly, and he is quite sure that he does, Sariel has always been the shy passive type of angel. He spent most of the 10th century being bullied by some of their more aggressive siblings, like Uriel, until the angel Rebecca took him under her wing. Aziraphale vaguely wonders if Bartholomew offered him the same deal he had offered Aziraphale. From the way Sariel is instantly at the bars begging the guards for mercy, Aziraphale doubts it.

            Predictably the guards are in no hurry to release the angel they just captured, and thus ignore his pleas.

            “There, there dear.” Aziraphale says comfortingly putting his hand on Sariel’s shoulder, “It’s really not so bad. It’s more boring than anything else.”

            “Not so bad?” Sariel repeats incredulously, “They just _murdered_ Rebecca. They murdered every single one of her followers…except me.”

            “Oh…well. I’m sorry” Aziraphale says sincerely, “come sit down.” Not for the first time Aziraphale strongly wishes for a pot of tea, or maybe something stronger. Once he has gotten Sariel as comfortable as possible, which admittedly isn’t very comfortable on the cold hard ground, he decides to cautiously broach the subject of Sariel’s capture and Bartholomew’s latest massacre.

            “It was terrible,” Sariel groans, “they attacked during prayer time. Then Rebecca commanded us all not to fight because there had already been enough bloodshed. You would think that Bartholomew and his soldiers would have some sympathy for those who refuse to fight back…but no. They killed everyone, and seemed to enjoy it.” Sariel’s face twists in disgust at the memories.

            “That sounds simply horrible dear, but… and don’t take this the wrong way, why did he keep you alive?” Aziraphale asks.

            “Rebecca had many allies in many of the small fractions. You remember how beloved she was in heaven by all. Bartholomew probably wants to know about what other faction we worked with.” Sariel says. “But I won’t tell him anything. I’ll die first!” He adds spiritedly.

            “Well perhaps it won’t come to that” Aziraphale says optimistically. Sariel gives him a sour look and they fall into an awkward silence.

            Hours later, just as Aziraphale is working up the nerve to ask Sariel if he’s happened to ever run into Castiel while on Earth, the cell door opens.

            A bored guard looks down at them dispassionately, “You two; you’re needed upstairs.” Aziraphale vaguely recognizes this angel, he was one of the warriors. He spent most of his time on Heaven’s training battleground, a place Aziraphale actively avoided as much as possible. It is obvious that the angel thinks being a guard for a pair of some of heaven’s least intimidating angels, is beneath his station.

            He orders Sariel and Aziraphale to walk ahead of him with their arms up in a single file line. They make it upstairs without incident, but as they walk down a long hallway Aziraphale watches Sariel’s shoulders tense. That is all the warning he receives before Sariel’s charred wings flair out. Aziraphale tries to duck as one giant wing swing back, catching him in the shoulder. He’s knocked back into the guard as loose, broken feathers rain down on him. Sariel flaps his broken wing, every beat sending waves of agony down his back. He feels his feet leave the ground, and for one brief moment he actually believes that he is going to escape. Then he feels a slicing pain in his back that has nothing to do with his wings and then he doesn’t feel anything anymore.

            Aziraphale stares at the body. An angel blade sticks out of the back right between the shoulders. Sariel’s face still holds a mixture of pain and hope of escape.

            “Come on, stop gawking.” The guard says coldly as he pushes Aziraphale forward. Aziraphale steps over the ashy wing print respectfully. The guard steps right through as if he doesn’t know, or more likely care, that it’s there.

            The guard keeps his blade pressed uncomfortably against Azirphale’s spine, cautiously prepared for a second escape attempt. Aziraphale actually considers it, briefly. Not escaping, he knew that would be impossible with his wings, but making the attempt anyway. Dying in a last desperate attempt to survive rather than dying like a lamb that’s been lead to slaughter.

            However, before Aziraphale can convince himself that death was truly preferable than the unknown and probably still deadly future that awaited him, he had arrived at a door at the end of the hallway.

            “Open the door,” the guard growls, poking him in the back for emphasis. With his last chance at an escape attempt vanishing before his eyes, Aziraphale does as he is told.

            He stops short in shock, when he sees the two people in the room. He had expected to see Bartholomew’s smug face so seeing him was no surprise, but the second person…Tan coat, dark hair, and familiar blue eyes…A series of emotions hit Aziraphale. First, delight, Cas was here, after months of searching he had completed stage one of his mission. This feeling was immediately followed up by worry, if Cas was here than he must also be a prisoner, which then fell away to suspicion when he observed the lack of guards in the room and Bartholomew’s relaxed stance. He didn’t even have his blade out.

            Surely Cas wasn’t allying himself with Bartholomew, right? Cas had never quite shared Aziraphale’s distrust of him, but only because Cas was so naturally trusting towards all his siblings. Although after everything that had happened in recent years Aziraphale had hoped that Cas had outgrown that particular trait.

            “Aziraphale? What are you doing here?” Cas asks and then before Aziraphale can answer he turns to Bartholomew and asks, “What is he doing here?”

            “Calm down Castiel,” Bartholomew says, he still looks perfectly unconcerned as Cas glares at him.

            “He and Metatron both spent ages in the library together, I brought him here so he can help us find Metatron, that’s all.” Bartholomew says. Cas looks pointedly at the guard, who still has his blade out.

            “I offered him a position in my operation. He refused, and I had to keep him here somehow.” Bartholomew shrugs.

            “Are you alright?” Cas asks Aziraphale.

            “I am, but poor Sariel isn’t. He’s dead.” Aziraphale says angrily.

            “He tried to escape, I had no choice sir,” The guard interjects. Bartholomew looks momentarily put out by that, but he quickly recovers and smiles at the guard, “of course, of course. We couldn’t have disobedience like that.”

            “Disobedience? He was terrified!” Aziraphale says in disgust, “Castiel, you can’t agree with him on this.”

            “He’s right Bartholomew, it doesn’t have to be like this.” Cas says.

            “Yes it does,” Bartholomew snaps, losing all semblance of calm, cool, collected and draws his blade, “Now tell me everything you know about Metatron.” He points the blade at Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale backs up to find the guards blade at his back.

            “I know that he hates to be disturbed when reading, and he has a preference dramas. He also sometimes talked about writing his novel someday, but that’s all I know. Nothing of use. Believe it or not we did not spend our reading time discussing plots to overthrow heaven.” Aziraphale says thoroughly tired with Bartholomew’s antics, and wishing desperately to be anywhere else, “Please if I knew something of use, I would tell you, but I don’t know anything.”

            The silence stretches on uncomfortably long and Aziraphale begins to wonder if they are just going to stab him or throw him back in the cell for all eternity.

            “He’s telling the truth, let him go Bartholomew.” Cas finally says. He takes a few steps closer, slowly because the blades are still dangerously close to Aziraphale.

            “Perhaps he is, but in that case we have no use for him.” Bartholomew says, his eyes gleaming with malice. Aziraphale tenses expecting to feel twin blades slicing into his chest and back. The pain doesn’t come.

            “I said let him go Bartholomew,” Cas says, his blade drawn and held firm against the back of Bartholomew’s neck.

            “I should have known you were too weak to do what needs to be done,” Bartholomew sneers. Cas ignores the jab and reaches around Bartholomew to tug at Aziraphale’s arm. Grateful, Aziraphale allows himself to be pulled away from the deadly blades. As soon as he’s safe, Cas lowers his blade, “I don’t want to fight.” He turns to leave.

            “Good thing you won’t have to” Bartholomew says and lunges at Cas’s unprotected back. Aziraphale’s warning dies in his throat as Cas spins around and catches Bartholomew’s arm. With a sharp twist, and a heavy push the blade enters Bartholomew’s stomach. With a choked cry and an explosion of light, he dies.

            Ashy wings stain the floor. Aziraphale turns on his heel and walks out, taking great care to step on the wing print as he goes. Cas follows. The guard, in shock, makes no movement to stop them as they leave the room.

            Aziraphale doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief until they are out of the building, down the street, and sitting on a bench in front of a gas station. No angels have stopped them yet, and in a few hours both Aziraphale and Cas will be on a bus out of this town.

            Aziraphale glances at Cas. He is sitting hunched over with his eyes staring almost blankly ahead. The outside observer probably would have said he looked tired, bored and perhaps a little cold. Aziraphale knew better though. Cas was listening in on angel radio to see if any of Bartholomew’s followers were coming.

            “Hear anything?” Aziraphale asks quietly, almost afraid to break his concentration, to accidentally make him miss something important.

            “No,” Cas says pulling himself out of his trance and sitting up, “which is good.”

            Aziraphale grins in relief. He has found Cas and soon this nightmare of a town would be no more than a reflection in the bus mirrors.

            “What do we do now?” Aziraphale asks.

            “We? We do nothing. I would suggest you get as far away from me as possible.” Cas responds.

            “What, no! I’ve been searching the country for you, and now you want me to just leave?” Aziraphale says.

            “Yes.” Cas just blinks at him.

            This was not a part of the plan. Cas was supposed to lead him and the other angels back to heaven. Of all the scenarios that Aziraphale had run in his head Cas outright refusing to do anything to stop the chaos the angels had brought to his precious Earth never even entered the equation.

            “B-but what about getting back to heaven? Who is going to lead us?” Aziraphale asks.

            “If you are interested in the war to get back into heaven, there are plenty of factions for you to join, but I’ve brought enough bloodshed on our siblings. I won’t be responsible for any more deaths.” Cas snaps.

            Aziraphale would feel bad for him. Cas really has suffered more than his fair share, but the implication that Aziraphale should just join any old faction, like it doesn’t matter, like Aziraphale wasn’t specifically requesting to follow Cas because he admires him and trusts him, makes Aziraphale’s blood boil.

            “I don’t want to just join any faction. I don’t want to just mindlessly fight against our siblings. I want to follow you. I’m trusting you to lead us home. You can’t just refuse!” Aziraphale says losing his temper for the first time in a millennia.

            Cas looks briefly taken aback by his outburst, but then the bus pulls up. Cas recomposes himself and climbs aboard. “I suggest spending this time taking advantage of all the wonders of Father’s creation, if you don’t want to fight.” Cas says calmly.

            The bus ride is tense and painfully awkward. Other bus riders have a distinct feeling of discomfort although none of them can pinpoint exactly why. When they leave the bus they find the feeling sticks with them for the rest of the day, making them grumpy and snappish to their confused friends and family.

            Meanwhile Aziraphale gets off the bus at the first stop. Cas rides it until it’s last. With sadness Aziaphale realizes that there is no point in coming up with a stage two of his plan considering how big a disappointment stage one turned out to be. He quickly adopted "find tea and a good book" as his new plan.


	17. A Bookstore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a dark and stormy night two beings meet in a not-so-old bookstore.

        Aziraphale is only one town over from Boyle’s Ministry Inc., but he isn’t overly concerned. If angels have decided to come after them they would surely follow Cas’s trail instead of his. With his new found freedom from both Bartholomew’s prison and his self-imposed mission, Aziraphale wonders the streets of small town America. It’s nothing like London, and although Aziraphale had only stayed there a short time London had really seemed like a place he could have grown into. Here already seemed to small and confining.

        Dark clouds began gathering in the sky as the day wore on, as if fate was conspiring to make his day even more miserable. Aziraphale actually had to stop and think; did he piss off any of the fates recently. By the time the first fat raindrops splashed in his hair he had come to the conclusion that he had not, and was merely suffering from what humans call “bad luck.”

        A bookstore, that is not nearly as old or as nice as the bookstore his vessel had back in London comes into view. Deciding that it was better than nothing, Aziraphale ducks inside. Bebop pipes through the sound system and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. A too friendly salesperson greets him and shoves the newest best seller under his nose, and assures him that for the low low price of $15.99 it could be his. Personally, Aziraphale feels that she is a bit too eager to rid herself of the book. He couldn’t imagine just selling books indiscriminately to whoever walked in. What if they were the type of person that folded the corner of the page instead of using a proper bookmark?

        He eventually manages to politely shake her off and hides in the back of the store where comfy chairs are set up. He meanders through the religious section, picking up a King James Bible and skims through it half-heartedly. The storm is really picking up now, and Aziraphale is wishing for some hot tea, not that he needs it. He has never truly felt thirst or coldness, but somehow he still feels that hot tea would help.

        Other potential customers are streaming in now to get out of the rain, one of them a smartly dressed man who gives off the impression that he is not-so-secretly judging everyone as saunters through the bookshelves.

        Aziraphale doesn’t even notice him at first, and when he does he is surprised that it took so long for him to do so. The stranger is a demon, one of the original fallen angel types. Yet, despite that, there is something distinctly human about him. Aziraphale wonders if it is a spell masking his demonic nature.

        Aziraphale looks down at the book in his hands, a biography on Oscar Wilde. He had long ago put the Bible back in its proper spot. He feels a weary sense of duty to protect the unwitting humans from the demon that has entered their midst. With a sigh he leaves the plush cushions. His back spasms at the movement and he winces. Aziraphale dearly hopes that the demon is not looking for a fight, for the sake of his still aching wings.

        “Excuse me,” Aziraphale says to the demon, because in his opinion, just because they are natural enemies there is no need for rudeness. The demon jumps, apparently he hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice the angel in the corner, or Aziraphale was even weaker than he had previously thought. Aziraphale sincerely hopes it is the first scenario. The demon quickly recovers however and gives him a cold look, “Yesss?”

        “I don’t want to fight you, but if you are planning on bothering any of these humans I will stop you,” Aziraphale says bravely, and is quite disappointed when the demon begins laughing.

        “Do you know who I am?” The demon asks.

        “Er…a demon,” Aziraphale says, it’s not like he was in the habit of getting to know demons on a personal level.

        “I’m Crowley, King of Hell,” He sneers.

        Aziraphale blinks in surprise, “No, that’s not right. I distinctly remember hearing that Crowley used to be a human tailor named Fergus. You’re a fallen angel, one of the original demons.”

        Crowley’s smirk grows wider, “Glad to see that rumor is going around…but do you really believe that one of those sorry excuse for a demon could really take over hell?”

        Aziraphale has to concede that he does have a point. “Well it’s not like I would know all the ins and outs of hell.” He says defensively.

        “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re just another prissy angel.” Crowley says, his voice is dripping with contempt.

        Aziraphale ignores the insult. It wasn’t the first time someone called him prissy. “Shouldn’t you be in hell? I would think harassing shop patrons to be beneath the station of the King of Hell,” Aziraphale sniffs dismissively.

        “True, but it is terribly relaxing,” Crowley says. With a wave of his hand a heavy bookcase topples over on the chipper salesperson. Aziphale frantically waves his hand and the salesperson finds herself standing approximately three feet to the left, next to the toppled bookcase.

        “Spoilsport,” Crowley complains.

        “What are you really doing here?” Azirphale asks as the salesperson’s manager hurries over to help her stand up the bookcase.

        “I told you, I’m taking a day off and relaxing,” Crowley says. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him.

        “Is that really so hard to believe?” Crowley asks grumpily.

        “Yes. Why would the King of Hell need a day off? And even if you did it’s mighty suspicious of you to go skulking around with some type of spell to mask your demonic presence.” Aziraphale scoffs.

        Now Crowley looks truly surprised, “Spell? I haven’t got…dammit.”

        “What?” Aziraphale asks.

        “Those bloody Winchesters. The tall moose-like one decided earlier this year that it would be a fun idea to inject me with human blood.” Crowley’s face twist in disgust.

        “Why would he do something like that?” Aziraphale asks skeptically.

        “All part of some harebrained scheme of theirs to close the gates of hell. It wouldn’t have worked even if he had completed it though. The spell called for a demon, not a fallen angel.” Crowley says, grin returning.

        Aziraphale wants to not believe him, because he is a demon and demons can’t be trusted, but from what he’s heard about the Winchesters from Cas that seems like exactly something they would do.

        “And it’s not like I don’t have enough on my plate with Abbadon back in town.” Crowley continues, seemly happy that he has found someone to complain to.

        “She’s back?” Azuraphale gasps, “No, impossible. I thought Michael wiped out all the Knights of Hell.”

        “Well, he missed one, and now she’s my problem, hence the mini-vacation.” Crowley growls. The two fall into an awkward silence, watching as the salesperson restocks the books. Aziraphale winces every time she shoves one in too roughly.

        “So what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off trying to find a way back into heaven?” Crowley asks.

        “No,” Aziraphale snaps, Crowley’s innocent comment reminding him of Cas’s suggestion of joining a random faction.

        “Touchy, you’re not thinking of joining my side are you?” Crowley asks.

        “Never, I am nothing like you!” Aziraphale says offended.

        “Oh really?” Crowley grabs his shoulder and spins Aziraphale around. He is forced to meet Crowley’s eyes, and just for a second the pupils elongate and the eyes turn yellow. Snake eyes. “We’re both fallen angels, so you can get off your high horse.”

        Aziraphale looks away afraid and ashamed, because Crowley’s not wrong. Perhaps he didn’t fall quite as far as Crowley, but he still fell and he has no right to judge. Crowley lets go and with an almost mischievous smirk he telepathically shoves a patron; a large man who had already been having a bad day. He spins around, almost happy to have someone to take his anger out on. His gaze lands on a teenager, whose hair was too long and looks like the type of young punk who would go around pushing strangers. The fight escalates as the teenager denies touching him. Aziraphale doesn’t bother stopping the fight. Should a fallen angel be thwarting evil?

        Uncomfortable with these thoughts and privately vowing to do some serious self-reflection later, Aziraphale restarts the conversation that had once again fallen into an awkward quiet.

        “Do your wings ever stop hurting?”

        For the briefest of moments Aziraphale swears the King of Hell looks sympathetic. That is of course not possible. Demons don’t feel sympathy.

        “Not really. It hurts less, and eventually you learn to ignore it.” Crowley finally says.

        “Oh,” Aziraphale says. It’s not the answer he was hoping for, but he can’t say he’s surprised. Falling from heaven is a punishment, of course the pain would be everlasting.

        Crowley checks his watch, which was black, sleek, and clearly expensive. It gave the time to twenty Earthly capital cities, and the capital to Another Place. It was custom designed because there were occasional perks of being King to make up for endless paperwork and the occasional revolt.

        “Well I must be off; places to go, people to maim.” Crowley says.

        “Oh…er…right.” Aziraphale says awkwardly.

        “If you ever change your mind, though, I’m sure I could find a spot for you in hell.” Crowley says with a wink. He disappears out the door into the storm before Aziraphale can think of a suitable comeback.

        Hours later after the storm has passed and the shop begins closing for the evening, Aziraphale leaves as well. Perhaps Cas’s suggestion to experience the human world wasn’t so bad after all.


	18. Angel Base, Missouri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late, but here is the newest chapter. This chapter coincides with Season 9, episode 22 in the Supernatural timeline. Any dialogue that you recognize has been borrowed from that episode. Please enjoy and leave a review!

            The bookstore where Aziraphale had met Crowley in was the only bookshop in town. The next town had two bookstores, and a library, and the town next to that had a bookstore, a library, and an old used bookshop. The used bookshop was by far the most dim and least cheerful looking shop he had been in since he had arrived in America. He immediately got a job there. A steady stream of books and stable cash flow now established, he turned his attention towards finding a place to live.

            He didn’t really need a place to live. He didn’t sleep or eat and he spent most of his free time at the used bookshop anyway. However, when it was late out and everyone else had gone home for the night, leaving Aziraphale to wander the streets until the stores reopened, he couldn’t help thinking that having his own place would be nice.

            It would also be nice to have a place where he could spread out his wings without the humans noticing. He had tried doing it in the park one evening after a particularly long day, but a few teenagers had seen him and it had turned into quite the kerfuffle. The police officer hadn’t really bought his lie of practicing for a magic show, but it was 2 AM and his shift was almost over.  After that incident Aziraphale avoided the park and kept his wings firmly hidden, despite the ever present aching and longing to stretch them to relieve some tension in his ragged muscles.

            Richard was getting older and his retirement payments barely covered the cost food and electricity, leaving nothing for his Bingo nights. His bad hip also made going up the stairs a chore and as a result the second floor had fallen into disuse. A renter would fix both problems, although potentially brining a host of new problems. He privately considered it a miracle when he met Mr. Fell. The middle aged man was quiet, respectful and always paid on time. He did apparently skirt around the “no pets” rule, for Richard was constantly finding bird feathers around, but the birds were quiet and didn’t smell and Richard was willing to let it slide.

            Aziraphale was also pleased with their arrangement. Richard gave him a fair deal for the price of the room, always knocked on the rare occasion he needed to talk to Aziraphale and never said anything about the angel feathers scattered. Overall Aziraphale was very comfortable in his new life. He had books, a warm place to go at night. He had even found a small pond in the parks that had ducks. The only thing he lacked, which was so small it was hardly worth mentioning, was companionship. In heaven there were always angels milling about and there was always someone willing to have a friendly conversation about how the heavenly choir practice really was improving, or get some sparring practice in before prayers. Aziraphale rarely sought out companionship, but the option for it was a nice feeling and one that Aziraphale found himself missing sorely. Richard wasn’t quite the same. He was very nice, but he had a habit of rambling about “the olden” days, not realizing that to Aziraphale “the olden” days featured things like the Tower of Babel and illustrious figures like Moses. Richard was also fond of the catchphrase, “you’ll understand when you get to be my age.” That phrase was always Aziraphale’s cue to pretend he was late for his shift at the bookshop and swiftly end the conversation.

            It was a cold day and Aziraphale had just finished another successful shift at the shop. Three costumers had been driven out by his glare alone, and one persistent woman had been kindly informed that book she was seeking was no longer in stock and no they would not be getting another shipment in for over a month and the bookstore a few streets over had just gotten a shipment that he was sure had the precise book she was looking for. As he locked the front door he felt a peculiar prickle in the back of his neck. Suddenly, Heaven’s pull felt stronger than it had since the moment he had fallen. For a brief second, Aziraphale thought he was re-ascending into heaven. He stretched his wings out expecting to fly…A sharp pain in his back reminded him that his wings are still broken. Cleared briefly from the overwhelming feeling of heaven, Aziraphale realized that the heavenly feeling is coming from a direction, that isn’t up. It’s left and then once he is down the street, right for another two streets, before leading him to another left. So it went for hours, although that time was cut down considerably after Aziraphale decided to borrow a car. He fully intended to return it, besides it seemed ineffable that he should take the car. The keys were carelessly dropped less than a foot from the car door.

            The motel that he pulled into had not been updated since its conception in the 1970s. The owner was apparently waiting for the style to become “retro” and thus cool again. The parking lot was so crowded Aziraphale wondered if perhaps the hotel was hosting some sort of event, until he took a closer look. Angels, of all ranks and garrisons had gathered here, lured by the feeling of heaven radiating out of the room. As he walked up the drive the power of heaven almost took Aziraphale’s breath away.

            Was God himself behind the door? Had he finally revealed himself to lead them home? Aziraphale’s wings ached with a renewed sense of longing for home and his father. The door swung open and out stepped a familiar figure. He wasn’t God, but to Aziraphale at least, he was the next best thing.

            Cas stood awkwardly in front of the crowd of angels, many who looked adoringly at him, completely blitzed out on heavenly power. In Aziraphale’s opinion the speech was rather unimpressive. There were a lot of “ums” and Cas had a natural tendency to speak in a hard to understand growl, but the sincerity and heart could clearly be felt, and that was enough for Aziraphale and the other angels. 

            Although it seemed almost sacrilegious, Aziraphale found he liked this new life even more than the bookshop.  He was amongst his kin working towards a common goal that was _not_ the destruction of the human race. He felt needed in a way he hadn’t felt in years and Cas was very good about not overworking his troops. Although angels needed neither food nor rest, and could theoretically work 24 hours a day for as many days as they needed to find Metatron, Cas had adopted a more humane schedule that included generous downtimes for everyone. Aziraphale had the sneaking suspicion that Cas’s generosity, stemmed partly from his desire to spend time with the Winchesters. Not that Aziraphale was complaining, Cas deserved any good he could find, besides this town also had a used bookshop for Aziraphale to frequent on his time off.

            Aziraphale should have known it wouldn’t last long.

            Angels weren’t known to gossip, if only for the fact that Michael had personally made sure to purge any mention of heavenly nattering from the Bible. However, angels may just be the most gossipy things in all of Father’s creation, in Aziraphale’s opinion. And the rumors that flew around. Hell looked positively pious in comparison when angels really got going.

            It was largely this reason that Aziraphale ignored the rumors that Cas had called the Winchester’s in after an attack on one of their own. Cas typically kept his involvement with the Winchesters separate from his life with the angels. Whether he was embarrassed by the Winchesters or his angelic brethren, Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

            Aziraphale wasn’t the only one who didn’t believe the rumors judging by the collective murmuring that went through the crowd when the Winchester’s walked in. Aziraphale’s first impression was that they were just so _tall_. They were also very intimidating. Even as he watched Dean joke with Cas, an air of danger still surrounded him. In a way they both reminded Aziraphale very much of angels; dangerous when provoked, and constantly on the look out to be provoked. He was not surprised that they were the vessels of two of the most dangerous angels in all of heaven and hell.

            Wisely, Aziraphale gave them both a polite nod and kept his distance. A decision that he didn’t regret when he joined a conversation between Hannah, Tremiel, and Flagstaff. (Whose name wasn’t actually 18 syllables long, but she insisted on being called Flagstaff to avoid having the Winchester’s know her real name. Some angels were funny about letting humans know their true name.)

            “I know he’s the commander’s friend, and I know that we’re supposed to pretend to like him, but that ape put a knife to my throat.” Flagstaff fumes.

            “Well humans can be a bit overemotional even at the best of times.” Aziraphale says. Privately he thinks that that piece of wisdom also applies to angels as well. Flagstaff looks less than impressed. Their conversation is interrupted by Dean returning, with the reaper Tessa, in handcuffs.

            They follow Dean down to the interrogation room. Other angels quickly begin to gather. The commander’s best friend and reaper in handcuffs, accused of being one of the suicide bombers; Aziraphale just knows that the rumor mill would be churning for weeks no matter how this gets resolves.  Dean disappears with Tessa alone in the room, and Hannah makes quick work of dispersing the crowd.

            “See, he’s completely out of control.” Flagstaff hisses, “he should be locked up before he kills one of us.”

            “My dear, if Tessa was going to kill herself, and possibly dozens of innocents, Dean’s actions were quite justified.” Aziraphale says.

            “Did you see what he did to her? He hurt her.” She snaps.

            “To break the spell, not for his enjoyment. Can angels really judge him? We have done far worse to our captives.” Aziraphale reminds her gently.

            The scream that interrupts them pierces into their graces. It’s a death scream, not the first any of them had ever heard, but to Aziraphale at least, all death screams were as jarring and terrible as the first.

            “Told you he would kill someone.” Flagstaff says in a way that is far too smug for the circumstances.

            “I never should have left him alone.” Hannah says, pushing the door open. Dean stands above the crumpled body of Tessa. Unlike angels, reapers didn’t leave wing prints on the floor when they died, although it was obvious that she was unmistakably dead. In Dean’s hand was a weapon that Aziraphale had only ever heard about but never seen. He blesses himself. The donkey jaw stained with centuries of blood put more fear in him than even Michael’s angel blade.

            “This isn’t what it looks like.” Dean says, mercifully setting the blade down. Flagstaff scoffs, but isn’t brave enough to say anything in the presence of such a weapon.

            “Get in the chair.” Hannah says pulling out her blade.

            “Not gonna happen.”

            More angels crowd around the door, all pulling out angel blades. Weeks of tension building up from the Metatron search and the attacks look ready to spill out. Dean may have the blade, but he was still vastly out-numbered, and only human.

            “Perhaps we should call Cas.” Aziraphale says.

            “No. He needs to be dealt with now.” Flagstaff says. There is a murmuring of agreement that didn’t accompany Aziraphale’s suggestion.

            “No. We wait until Cas is back, but we tie him up so he can’t cause further harm.” Hannah says, never taking her eyes off of Dean.

            Two angels in large burley vessels enter the room. Dean puts up an impressive fight for a human. Azirpahale doesn’t fail to notice that Dean remains purely defensive, blocking and dodging punches, but never attempting to land any blows of his own. Eventually a hard punch to the nose stuns him long enough to be pulled down into a chair.

            “Let me outta hear.” Dean snarls, “Cas is gonna be pissed when he comes back!”

            Flagstaff takes great pleasure in putting the tape over his mouth. The other angels trickle out, back to their stations. Aziraphale lingers behind.

            “I’m very sorry about all that.” Aziraphale says.

            He can’t understand Dean’s reply through the tape, but based on the muffled tone and accompanying death glare, he knows that it’s nothing polite. He hurries out of the room, shutting the door behind him.  

            Hannah is already on the phone when Aziraphale rejoins the rest of the angels. Her voice is clipped and professional, like it has always been when addressing her superiors, but there is an undercurrent of anger, and fear, which is not in her nature. She ends the call.

            “The commander says not to do anything until he comes back.” She announces to the angels gathered. Flagstaff scoffs loudly, much braver now that she’s in a different room than Dean.

            “Why bother? He won’t do anything to his favorite pet human.”

            Hannah opens her mouth to silence her, and then closes it. Personally she doubts Dean will be punished as well, and her deep seated sense of justice roars in frustration. This is not what she wanted when she agreed to follow Cas. She had been expecting a great leader, who would nobly put his damned fascination with the humans to the side to lead the angels, _his family_ , home again.

            Dean hadn’t been lying when he had said Cas was going to be pissed. The moment the car, Aziraphale could never remember which type as all cars look the same to him, pulled up the angels could hear the thunder radiating from Cas.

            Sam and Dean always considered Cas to be a quiet type. In fact most humans who met him would probably use the word “quiet” to describe him at some point. What they didn’t realize however that Cas was very vocal, he just very rarely expressed it verbally, or in any way that a human could hear. Angels however, heard ever crack of his grace lashing out, and the rolling thunder as his very being shook in anger. Most angels averted their eyes, a few particularly cowardly brethren suddenly found that they had important business to attend to in a different room.

            “Where is he?” Cas growled, and his grace growls louder making it hard to hear his low human voice. Hannah bravely stepped forward and volunteered to lead Cas to him. Aziraphale doesn’t follow, doesn’t want to face Cas’s wrath when he sees Dean tied and bleeding.

            The lights in the main room dim briefly with the intensity of Cas’s grace when he sees Dean.

            “He’s really mad.” Flagstaff muttered. Aziraphale nodded in agreement. Before Flagstaff can say anything more the big screen began to flash with an incoming call.

            There were few angels who claimed any sort of skill with technology. Most angels reviled it as being too human, although that was just a convenient excuse. Angel grace mixed very poorly with technology. Aziraphale was sure God did that purposefully as one of his many jokes.

            An angel fumbles with the computer, almost missing the call, before Metatron’s face appears on the screen.

            “Where’s Asstiel?” Metatron asked.

            What follows is a complete an utter disaster in Aziraphale’s opinion. Metatron was particularly smug as he threw accusations at Cas. Aziraphale could feel the tension rising, graces clanged and crashed in frustration. All of Cas’s previous failures, big or small, suddenly seemed very important.

            “You don’t believe these lies?” Aziraphale asked Flagstaff quietly.

            “The commander,” she spit the word out in contempt, “has been sending us to our deaths. Either by suicide or at the hands of his hairless ape.”

            “He wouldn’t…and even if he would, Cas is a terrible liar. He’s clearly telling the truth.” Aziraphale said. Flagstaff just sneers.

            Then Metatron brings up Cas’s stolen and diminishing grace and it goes quiet. All the angels hanging on to his every word. The angels had followed Cas because they thought he would triumphantly lead them home, but the weeks had worn on and it was hard work fixing heaven, and angels weren’t used to hard work. With literally miraculous powers at their fingertips things were just easy. Even fighting came naturally to angels…but toiling away on Earth, confined and limited for the first time in their lives. That was a hardship that most angels could comprehend, and when Cas couldn’t fix it immediately resentment had begun to build. Metatron knew just what to say, to exacerbate every doubt, and poke at every hidden resentment until both were bubbling over. By the time he ended the call, Aziraphale knew that Cas’s time as commander was over.   

            When Hannah said that they needed proof, Aziraphale was briefly optimistic that they could be reasoned with. Perhaps Cas could gather evidence, present his case-

            “Punish him.” Hannah says. A soft disappointed sigh escapes Aziraphale’s lips. So they didn’t want proof that Cas hadn’t sent those suicidal bombers, they wanted a symbolic show of loyalty. That was completely different, and as much as Aziraphale loved his brother he was fully aware that if Cas had the choice he would always choose the Winchesters above the angels.

            The Winchesters, Dean in particular, didn’t react will to Hannah’s terms. Cas’s grace thundered as the angels grabbed Dean, but Hannah’s own grace was crackling. She was ready for a fight. Judging by the steady increase of buzzing and static, she wasn’t the only one.

            “No, I can’t” Cas says. Aziraphale smiles sadly at his stubborn resolve to protect the Winchesters at all costs.

            As the angels filed out one by one, Aziraphale remained firmly in his seat. Flagstaff scoffs at him as she walks by and Aziraphale meets her eyes coldly. He isn’t sure if he will stay with Cas, if Cas will even want him around, but he is positive that he would rather live on Earth for the rest of his immortal life than serve Metatron in Heaven.

            “Sweater vest, aren’t you leaving too?” Dean asks harshly.

            “No, I, uh, actually was planning to stay. I’d much rather be on your side than Metatron’s. If that’s okay of course.” Aziraphale says.

            Sam and Dean look to Cas for confirmation to his trustworthiness.

            “Thank you brother.” Cas says with a small shaky smile. The sudden loss of his army, shaking him more than he let on.

            “We’re going back to the bunker…you can come too.” Sam offers.

            “Thank you.” Aziraphale says gratefully.

            They all pile into the car, Aziraphale and Cas in the back. The trip back is quiet, but Aziraphale can feel the tension building between the two brothers. There was going to be an argument soon. He wondered if their fights were as dramatic as Michael and Lucifer’s. Dean pulls up to a rather unimpressive building, half underground, which Aziraphale assumes must be the bunker. He hurries to keep up with Cas as he enters his new home.


	19. The Bunker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the newest chapter. This chapter follows the episode "Do You Believe in Miracles?" from Supernatural. Any lines you recognize are from there as well. I hope you enjoy and tell me what you think.

            It was Gadreel’s unexpected entrance that finally blew the lid on Dean’s infamous explosive temper. For a brief moment Aziraphale had thought Dean actually killed him. While Sam and Cas wrestle the blade away and haul Dean out of the room, Aziraphale checks on Gadreel. Thankfully he is still breathing, and beginning to sit up woozily.

            The Mark’s influence is getting worse, Aziraphale spares a worry that in his rage Dean may turn on all of them if something doesn’t happen soon. Putting that aside for now he looks at Gadreel, who is tense with pain and suspicion, as if he expects Aziraphale to finish what Dean started. When he realizes that Aziraphale doesn’t seem to be planning on attacking him he stumbles to his feet.

            “I should go.” He mutters. He tries to take a step forward and nearly collapses.

            “No, I think Sam and Cas will want to talk to you once they’ve calmed Dean down.” Aziraphale says, at least he hopes he’s right in his guess that Sam and Cas don’t want Gadreel dead.

            “I’d rather die in peace.” Gadreel says as Aziraphale helps him to a chair.

            “Don’t be dramatic,” Aziraphale scolds gently. He looks at Gadreel’s wound. It is a rather deep gash. For a human it would have been fatal. However, Aziraphale merely tuts and allows some of his grace to flow into Gadreel. The wound closes in a flash of blue.

            “Thank you.” Gadreel says sullenly.

            From below they hear a door slam and the sound of footsteps. Gadreel tenses again and Aziraphale can sense that he’s ready to bolt. Aziraphale grabs his sleeve gently. Sam and Cas return. Sans Dean. This seems to calm Gadreel slightly, but Aziraphale keeps a firm grip on his sleeve. Just in case.

            “Sorry about that.” Sam says, “what were you saying abo—”

            The rest of what he is saying is drowned out by a high pitched buzz from angel radio. From the looks on Cas’s and Gadreel’s faces, Aziraphale knows that he is not the only one who hears it.

            Then Metatron’s voice begins to filter through.

            “I'd like to take a moment to welcome you all back.”

            Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He had hoped that by joining Cas and the Winchester’s he would have to be subjected to any more of Metatron’s onerous speeches. As Metatron rambles on Cas’s expression grows darker. Finally Metatron’s voice fades out.

            “You heard him too?” Gadreel asks.

            “Heard what?” Sam asks.

            “Metatron. He’s going after humanity.” Gadreel says seriously.

            “Damn. But you said you know where Metatron is, right?” Sam asks.

            Before Gadreel can answer, he, Cas, and Aziraphale all tense.

            “What? Another message from Metatron?” Sam asks.

            “No. Demon.”

            “Dean.” Sam growls. He takes off running after the angels. They come to a halt in one of the storage rooms, where Sam had put the first blade for safe keeping.

            “Hello boys.” Crowley smirks at them. He holds the first blade casually, “just popping in.”

            “Put that down Crowley.” Sam says. He wishes he hadn’t left Ruby’s knife in the car.

            “Sorry, no can do Moose.” Crowley says before turning his attention to Aziraphale, “Angel! Did the bookstore finally get too boring?”

            “Give us back the first blade!” Aziraphale snaps.

            “Nope. Word of advice though, you can do much better than the Winchester’s and their lot.” Crowley disappears with a snap.

            “Dean,” Sam leads the race to the dungeon. It’s empty when they get there.

            “He kidnapped Dean, why?” Aziraphale asks.

            “He’s a demon. He doesn’t need an excuse to be evil.” Sam growls.

            “Though I suspect Dean went with him willingly,” Cas says, pointing to the remains of a summoning ritual.

            “Dammit, Crowley must be helping Dean go after Metatron.” Sam says. He dials Dean’s phone. It goes straight to voicemail. He dials Dean’s other phone. It also go straight to voicemail.

            “Right now Metatron has found a way to tap into the Angel Tablet.” Gadreel says, “It gives him power, like God. I doubt even with the King of Hell’s help Dean will be able to defeat him.”

            “Well that’s just great.” Sam says, throwing his phone on the table in frustration.

            “If we could break the connection to the tablet though. Then he’d just be an ordinary angel,” Aziraphale says.

            “And I know where the tablet is. It’s in Metatron’s office, in heaven.” Gadreel says.

            “Great plan guys,” Sam says, “But how are we supposed to get it. It’s not like you can just walk into heaven with heaven’s most wanted.”

            “Sam let us try this. You stay here and see if you can get a lead on where Metatron is.” Cas says.

            “Fine,” Sam says too tired to argue. He pulls out his laptop to begin sifting through news stories for anything miraculous.

            Cas grabs the car keys. Once the three angels are settled in and Cas begins driving. He follows Gadreel’s instructions carefully until they arrive at a park. Brightly colored slides and a swing set dot the green field.

            “A playground?” Aziraphale asks skeptically.

            “Guarded by two of the best.” Gadreel says. Aziraphale takes a closer look at the little girl on the swing and her mother on the bench. Their grace shimmers around them like a white halo. Definitely angels.

            “You have a plan?” Gadreel asks Cas, as he parks the car.

            “Yes. You are going to pretend that you have captured us.” Cas says. He’s very proud of his plan. Aziraphale and Gadreel just stare at him.

            “That’s it?” Gadreel asks.

            “Yes. What’s wrong with my plan?” Cas asks, defensively.

            “Nothing,” Aziraphale says quickly, “It’s just…very simple.”

            “I’ve learned from the Winchester’s that sometimes the simplest plans are the best.” Cas says, “but if you two don’t like it, than I assume you have a better plan.”

            They didn’t. They had unofficially declared Cas the leader of this operation and had left all planning up to him. That is how Aziraphale finds himself in handcuffs, next to Cas, who is also in handcuffs.

            Aziraphale is not impressed with the plan. He is however impressed with Gadreel’s lying ability. Gadreel easily waves away Asarial and Purah’s concerns, and with less of a fight than Aziraphale was expecting, the portal to heaven is open and the three of them step through. Heavenly power surrounds them and Aziraphale can feel it pressing comfortingly into him on all sides. He opens his wings slightly, allowing heaven’s power to slip between the feathers and drip down his back, bringing a relief to sore muscles that he hasn’t felt since his expulsion from heaven. He rolls his back and tries to keep the relief from showing on his face. _I’m a prisoner, I should be nervous,_ he reminds himself harshly. He schools his face into a frown.

            Gadreel walks him and Cas down the hall. Angels stop what they are doing to stare in shock. Aziraphale shifts self-consciously, although he knows that it’s Cas who has really captured their attention.

            One of Metatron’s most loyal, Ingrid, congratulates Gadreel on his capture and shows him into Metatron’s office to wait. Aziraphale can hardly hide his happiness. Cas’s plan is actually working even better than expected. At this rate they should be back on Earth, angel tablet in tow within the hour. Aziraphale had just completed that smug thought when the ground begins to shake. For a brief moment, Aziraphale thinks he’s falling again. Then thick walls with metal gates spring up around them.

            Aziraphale hears Cas shout, “What’s happening?” and Gadreel let lose a steady stream of curses and “no’s” that sound like prayers. Apparently the plan wasn’t as good as they thought.

            As Hannah and Ingrid gloat from the other side of the bars, Aziraphale tugs on his bars, his heart sinking. Heaven’s jail was inescapable, Gadreel could attest to that. And they had been so close too.

            Ingrid leaves Hannah to watch the prisoners, while she returns to work. Cas immediately launches into explaining why they need to be released. Aziraphale admires his tenaciousness, but privately thinks that he is wasting his breath. Hannah clearly wasn’t believing a word of it. Gadreel has fallen completely silent. Aziraphale can’t see him, but he is sure that being back in prison had triggered some very unpleasant memories for him.

            Eventually though Cas peters out. Aziraphale doesn’t have long to appreciate the silence before Gadreel begins talking. Although Aziraphale agreed with his overall message of protecting those who could not protect themselves, Aziraphale can’t help the feeling of dread that was curling around in his stomach.

            “Move to the other side of your cells” Gadreel warns. Moments later the ground shakes as explosion rocks the cells. The twisted bit of steel that was once the door to Aziraphale’s cell swings open. Hannah is gone. She ran for cover the moment she saw the sigil that Gadreel had carved into his chest.

            “Is he…?” Aziraphale asks

            “Yes,” Cas says sadly.

            Aziraphale would have liked a bit of time to mourn their fallen friend. He’s sure Cas would too, but there isn’t time. Hannah may be alerting the other’s to their escape at this very moment.

            Metatron’s office is a mess. Books are piled haphazardly everywhere, and although Aziraphale is tempted to look he strictly reminds himself that they have no time for that. He does however move an ancient looking bible that is laying a bit too close to the fireplace.

            “Here” Cas says. He picks up Metatron’s old fashioned type writer and opens it. Nestled inside is the angel tablet, glowing brightly.

            “He was using it to power his writing. Clever.” Aziraphale says. Cas gingerly picks up the tablet and after carefully examining it for a few seconds, smashes it on the floor as hard as he can.

            “Well played Castiel,” Metatron says appearing before them. Aziraphale is almost surprised at how unafraid he feels. Although Aziraphale doubts his own sword skills he is more than confident in Cas’s fighting ability compared to Metatron. Until Metatron drops a bombshell.

            “Dean Winchester is dead.”

            Cas deflates.

            “What?” For the first time in the many centuries that Aziraphale has known him Cas looks beaten. His shoulders slump, and his eyes lose that defiant gleam that not even Naomi could ever drill out of him.

            “You will never get away with this,” Cas says, but Aziraphale can see that his heart just isn’t in it. Aziraphale wants to help, but without a weapon or formidable hand to hand combat skills he’s at a loss to what to do. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a radio, the angel radio that Metatron has been using to send messages out to all of heaven.

            It’s a long shot. Metatron may not reveal anything, and even if he does the other angels may not even care, but it’s the only plan he has. It’s a simple plan, but maybe that’s what they need right now.

            He pushes a button. The light blinks on.

            “You give our brothers and sisters far too little credit. They will soon learn that you have been playing them.” Cas says.

            “And then? They will do nothing because they are frightened little sheep following my crook wherever it leads. And where I'm taking them, back to our rightful place atop this mountain of human shame and excrement -- when that happens, trust me, they're not gonna care how they got there.” Metatron laughs.

            “You killed our brothers and sisters,” Aziraphale snaps. The image of Gadreel lying dead in a pile of rubble still fresh in his mind.

            “Technically suicide bombers killed them.” Metatron says.

            “On your orders!”

            “True, but sometimes you have to crack a few eggs.” Metatron shrugs.

            “They weren’t eggs, they were are siblings.” Cas growls.

            “They were mindless drones, made to do God’s bidding. And since I’m the head chief now, it’s my bidding they do. I can make all the angels do whatever I want.” Metatron sneers.

            “And I think that’s exactly what they needed to hear,” Aziraphale says. He hears the sound of running feet and he hopes the angels are coming to help them and not Metatron. Graces rumble angrily as they surround Metatron, ripping the angel blade from his hand. The angels hardly take notice as Cas and Aziraphale leave. Aziraphale hopes that’s a sign that they have been forgiven now that the truth has come out, but he would rather not stick around to be sure. Cas just seems set on getting to the bunker to confirm what Metatron said.

            Back on Earth they find the car still parked where they left it. A ticket underneath the wiper. Cas ignores it.

            “You know, Metatron is a very good liar.” Aziraphale says as Cas peels out of the parking lot.

            “That was Dean’s blood on the blade.” Cas grunts.

            “Then maybe he wounded him. Human medical technology has come quite far in recent decades.” Aziraphale says.

            Cas doesn’t bother to reply. He just grips the steering wheel tighter.

            Cas slams the door open.

            “Dean! Sam!” He shouts. The bunker is silent. After a few seconds Sam comes around the corner. His eyes are red and it is obvious that he has been drinking. Aziraphale knows immediately that Metatron hadn’t been lying.

            “Where is he?” Cas asks, his voice suspiciously hoarse.

            “In his room.”

            Cas takes off.

            “I’m sorry for your loss,” Aziraphale says, and inwardly cringes. Even he knows that’s a terribly unhelpful thing to say. Sam scoffs, and Aziraphale doesn’t try another platitude.

            Suddenly Aziraphale senses something. _No, not here, not now._

            “Sam, demons.” Aziraphale gasps.

            Grief has not dulled Sam’s reflexes. He draws Ruby’s knife and runs to Dean’s room, Aziraphale close behind. Sam stops short in the doorway, Aziraphale nearly runs into him. He looks around Sam’s large frame to see what caused him to stop.

            Crowley stands next to the bed. An unconscious and bleeding Cas at his feet. But even more shocking was what was in the bed. Dean Winchester is sitting up, grinning.

            “Hey Sammy,” Green eyes flick to black.

            Sam hasn’t completely registered what he’s seeing, when Dean lunges off the bed with a guttural growl, attacking Sam with the first blade.

            While the brother’s fight, which mostly consists of Dean attacking and Sam dodging, Crowley turns to Aziraphale.

            “Hello Angel.”

            “What did you do?” Aziraphale asks.

            “Not me. The Mark did that. Unless you’re talking about Cas here, in which case yes that was all me.” Crowley says stepping over Cas’s prone body.

            Aziraphale hastily picks up Cas’s dropped angel blade. Crowley just raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and takes out his own.

            “I tried to warn you Angel, I really did. The Winchester’s are a bad lot to fall in with. You could have made something of yourself in hell.”

            “Never.” Aziraphale snaps. He has no delusions that he can take on the king of hell. He also knows that Sam probably won’t survive his fight with Dean, and there will be no help from Cas either. However, if he is going to die tonight, he’s not going to die begging for mercy or trying to make a deal with a demon.

            “Have it your way.”

            Aziraphale would have liked to say that the battle was impressive, that maybe he even managed to get the upper hand at one point, but that would have all been a lie. He blocked a few jabs, looking as ungraceful and panicked as possible in the process. Crowley is toying with him, he can tell. He fights just enough to keep Aziraphale on edge, but he is holding back. Crowley seems more interested in the fight happening to their left. Sam is holding his own much better now. Shock wearing off as he gets into the swing of a good old fashioned fight. But Dean isn’t a normal demon, he’s a knight of hell. When Sam briefly stumbles, Dean lunges, taking them both to the floor. With his larger size Sam manages to pin Dean. Before he can stab him however Dean’s eyes flick back to green.

            “You wouldn’t kill your brother, would you Sammy?”

            Aziraphale wants to shout that demons lie and that it isn’t his brother anymore, but as if anticipating his interruption Crowley knocks Aziraphale back, hard. Ditracted, his moment passes.

            Sam hesitates, and Dean flips him onto his back and begins punching. Even as a human Dean was strong, in his profession one had to be. Now though, filled with demonic rage and power, it only takes a few punches to make Sam go still. Dean keeps punching anyway, flecks of blood flying up to Dean’s face.

            “And so ends the life of Sam Winchester.” Crowley gloats. Without the spectacle to distract him, Crowley ups the fight to the next level. His attacks come quick and hard now, and Aziraphale is struggling to defend himself. Finally, Crowley slips through his defenses and his angel blade finds its mark.

            “Bye bye Angel.”

            The last thing Aziraphale sees is Crowley’s human eyes flick into yellow snake eyes. Then everything goes white. He falls to the ground. Dead.

            Hours later, Cas opens his eyes. He turns his head and jumps, startled by what he sees. Aziraphale’s unseeing blue eyes stare back at him, angel blade sticking out of his chest.

            Cas sits up, he sees Sam in the doorway, also dead. His face caved in and smeared with blood.

            Dean isn’t on the bed. The last thing he remembers is Dean opening his eyes. Opening his black eyes. Then looking past him and saying, “Hi, Crowley.” Then a sharp pain in his head. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened to him, or to Sam and Aziraphale.

            As he stares at the bodies of his friend and his brother he wonders where it all started to go wrong. How had things gotten so bad in heaven and on Earth? And what was he going to do about it now? Dean is a demon and even if he did cure him, the mark would only turn him again. Aziraphale’s death marked the death of the last angel who had actually cared about him as a brother and not a potential leader and commander. And without Sam and Dean, Cas wasn’t sure he could start a new life on Earth. There was absolutely no future for him.

            But perhaps there was a better past. Maybe, just maybe, if he went back far enough he could stop this. He could stop everything, and save countless of lives in the process.

            He’s weak though. His borrowed grace is fading and the blow to the head isn’t helping him think clearly. Still, he has nothing else to live for so he might as well try. He closes his eyes, gives a half-hearted prayer, more out of habit than belief that God is really listening, and then focuses on going back.

            On broken wings and a fading grace the trip is almost impossible. But somehow, possibly with a little divine intervention, Cas feels himself traveling back. It’s a bumpy trip and Cas feels like he is coming apart as he hurtles almost uncontrollably through time.

            When he finally comes to a stop, face down in the ground, his only thought is that he hopes he went back far enough. Then he passes out.


	20. Back Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I hope you all enjoy and let me know if you like it!

            When Cas wakes up it’s to the fresh smell of flowers that haven’t existed on Earth since the beginning. He opens his eyes, and immediately shuts them against the bright sunlight. He tries again, and after a few attempts he manages to keep them open long enough to see a gate. The gate to Eden, with no angel guarding it yet. He made it. God hasn’t yet chosen a guard. There’s still a chance to somehow convince God to choose another, someone who won’t let the snake it. But who?

            His first thought is himself. But then he remembers his countless sins throughout the years, and the number of times he has let the snake in, metaphorically. But of all his siblings, who remained uncorrupted? Then he remembers a pair of lifeless blue eyes.

            “Father, I hope you’re listening,” Cas prays, “because you are about to make a mistake. And I know you don’t think you can, but Gadreel never should have been the guardian of Eden. Choose Aziraphale. Please. If you love the humans and if you ever loved the angels, choose Aziraphale as the guard.”

            Nothing happens. Cas isn’t sure if God can even hear his prayers. He focuses on Heaven and has the odd experience of actually sensing himself in heaven. It’s a weird feeling, almost like he is two places at once. He stops concentrating on heaven.

            Then he sees a light. The Guardian of Eden has been chosen. Cas hides in a gathering of trees that were just imperfect enough to not make the cut to be let into the garden. He sees blonde hair and nearly weeps in relief as Aziraphale takes his post at the garden gates.

            Cas sits back and waits for himself to disappear into the nothingness as his timeline is destroyed. He waits. And waits. And then waits some more. By the third hour he realizes that although his own timeline is gone, God has seen fit to preserve him. He’s not sure why, and he doesn’t feel particularly grateful, but he accepts it. He continues to watch Aziraphale from a distance.  For days Aziraphale stands there like a statue, keeping guard over the two precious humans within the walls.

            Many times Cas considers revealing himself to Aziraphale, only to be too overcome with doubt and guilt over what he has done. How could Aziraphale forgive or even understand what he did. It’s better to keep hidden. Easier than trying to explain himself.

            Then for the first time since mornings had been created, there was a morning that was different. Cas could tell as soon as the sun rose above the garden wall. Aziraphale also seems to sense it by the way he keeps fiddling with his flaming sword. Sure enough, for the first time a snake slithers up to the gate. It is the first creature, besides himself and Aziraphale, that Cas has seen outside the garden gates. From his well-hidden position Cas can’t hear what they are saying, but he sees Aziraphale point his blade threateningly.

            “Yes,” Cas breathes in relief. Aziraphale was going to smite the serpent. The seconds drag on into minutes and still Aziraphale remains poised but unstriking. He seems to be talking to the serpent.

            “What are you doing?” Cas mutters. He can’t just sit here and watch history repeat itself, he prepares to leap from his hiding place and attack. Moments before he can however, the serpent slithers away. Cas blinks. Aziraphale hadn’t smote the serpent like he had been hoping, but he had repelled him and the humans were safe for another day. Cas relaxes and continues his watching.

            It is months before the serpent appears again. This time they talk even longer. Cas creeps closer trying to hear their conversation. He catches snatches.

            “Yes, they are still frolicking.”

            “Doesn’t that seem a bit excessssive?”

            That voice stops Cas in his tracks. It’s a voice that Cas didn’t think he would ever have to hear again in his life. A distinctly British voice, despite the fact that accents haven’t been invented yet.

            “Crowley. Damn him.” Cas mutters. He was the serpent? It certainly explained how he was able to rally hell under him after Lucifer’s defeat. Still, Cas had been hoping never to have to see that smug bastard again. His head still throbbed at thought of the last time they had met, and his heart ached at the thought of what he twisted Dean into.

            As if sensing that he was in danger Crowley hastily ended his conversation with Aziraphale and disappears into the bushes. Aziraphale watches him go with the vague feeling of disappointment, they had been having such an interesting conversation.

            Despite his hasty retreat Crowley’s visits became more and more frequent, and each visit lasted long into the day. Cas even overheard that he was going by “Crawley” now. After a particularly long day of watching them together Cas decides to take matters into his own hands, before Aziraphale is tempted into the same mistake Gadreel made.

            As Crowley (because he refuses to think of him as Crawley) disappears back into the surrounding area outside the wall Cas follows, determined to do what neither of his brothers had been able to do. He reaches out towards an unaware Crowley, only to find himself thrown back. He hits a tree with thud. For a brief moment he thinks that perhaps Crowley hadn’t been so unaware of his existence. He stands up ready for a fight, but instead feels like he’s just been wrapped up in an oversized fuzzy blanket. The feeling is the type of comforting peaceful feeling that one can only feel in the presence of the Lord.

            “Father?” Cas asks. Nothing answers but it feels as if the blanket has wrapped him up just a bit more snug. Cas tries to step forward after Crowley, only to find that he can’t.

            “Father, please. He’s going to destroy everything.” Cas begs. He hears no reply but the blanket remains firmly in place. Cas takes that to mean that he’s not allowed to smite him. As soon as he has that thought, the blanket feeling falls away allowing him to move again.

            “Fine, but if the humans fall, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Cas mutters. He swears he hears chuckling at that, although it may have just been the wind.

            Cas returns to watching Aziraphale. He doesn’t interfere when Aziraphale begins smiling as he greets Crowley. He doesn’t interfere when Aziraphale lays down his weapon, too deep in conversation with the demon to bother with pretenses. He doesn’t even interfere when he watches Aziraphale and Crowley disappear together through the garden gates.

            Cas isn’t surprised when a few hours later the humans are standing on the edge of the garden gates looking as guilty as…well as guilty as Adam and Eve had looked the first time they had eaten the apple. Aziraphale was also looking guilty as he hands them a sack stuffed with vegetables from the garden. Eve is holding her belly protectively, and both are staring with longing at Aziraphale’s flaming sword.

            Noticing their stares Aziraphale hands it to Adam. After all when God realizes that he had let the serpent in…he doubts he will be needing the sword. Cas almost interferes. It’s bad enough that Aziraphale had let the serpent in, but now he was handing over one of the most of the powerful weapons in heaven and on Earth. Was he crazy? Did he want the humans to destroy themselves even faster? This world was going to be even worse than the original one. However, once again before he can intercede the blanket feeling returns and he finds himself unable to move. He can only watch as the humans walk away from the garden hand in hand with a sack of food and a flaming sword.

            In heaven God smiles. Perhaps angels could learn empathy. He looks down at his humans cuddling by the light of the sword. Adam breaks the last carrot into pieces to share. He feels quite optimistic about the humans as well.

            He commands Aziraphale to remain on Earth and keep watch. Aziraphale, hardly believing his luck at not being cast down to hell, immediately agrees. Although he doesn’t ask for a new weapon, and God doesn’t offer him one.

            When Crowley reports his success. Hell commands him to remain on Earth and keep causing trouble. One of the few commandments from hell Crowley is happy to oblige.

            The only one unhappy with the arrangement was the strange little out of place angel. God watches as Castiel paces worriedly, already coming up with plans to impede with the ineffable plan. God watches him with sympathy, but resolves not to let him get in the way. The humans, and Aziraphale and Crowley, must sink or swim without Castiel’s involvement. Although God can’t help at feeling a glimmer of pride at how much Castiel cares. One of his angels actually learned to love and care that much. God feels very hopeful with that knowledge.


	21. A better Egypt?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is adjusting to this new universe. He just hopes this one is better than the last one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy and don't forget to tell me what you think!

            It had been centuries since Adam and Eve left the Garden, and things had been progressing relatively smoothly. Cas was slightly impressed that the continued presence of the serpent on Earth hadn’t caused too much trouble. He had been keeping an eye on Crowley, though he was very aware that watching him was about all he could do. Crowley, who was going by Khem now to fit in with the Egyptian populace, had been suspiciously good these past few centuries. Sure he tempted and committed whiles, but it was nothing Aziraphale couldn’t handle, and it was certainly far less than Cas knew him capable of.

            Cas follows Crowley as he saunters down the road. With a collection of amulets and concealment charms hidden on his person Cas is quite confident that the only angel in the city Crowley can sense is Aziraphale. It has been a few decades, but for the first time in a while Crowley and Aziraphale are in the same location again.

            Cas smiles slightly; although he has committed himself to keeping tabs on Crowley at all times it is always good to check up on his brother occasionally. Aziraphale seems to enjoy Earth and its inhabitants.

            Crowley opens the door to one of the many places where the beer flows for cheap. Cas has found that Crowley usually has expensive tastes, but he can sense Aziraphale inside and Cas assumes that Crowley is probably going in to start a fight.

            Seconds later Cas hears, “Hey Angel.”

            “Be gone serpent.” Aziraphale slurs drunkenly.

            “What’s this? Heaven’s pawn getting drunk in the middle of the day. Not very angelic behavior.” Crowley mocks.     

            “I said be gone!” Aziraphale snaps. From outside Cas can see the timber of the rooftop begin to smoke dangerously. He hastily puts the bludgeoning fire out before anyone can notice, then slips inside to get a better look at Aziraphale. The angels unusually grumpy tone has him concern and he wracks his brain for any memory of ancient Egypt that could have put Aziraphale in such a state.

            “What’s wrong with you?” Crowley asks, ordering a drink for himself, and another one for Aziraphale.

            “Nothing you would understand.” Aziraphale says, downing the drink in one gulp.

            “Let me guess, orders from your superiors that you disagree with, but can’t change.” Crowley says raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

            Aziraphale scowls at Crowley, and scooches his bar stool away from him. From his seat at the end of the bar Cas tries to remember any heavenly orders from heaven around this time. Unfortunately the harder he thinks the louder the sound of static echoes in his head. When he finally gives up thinking, a dull ache persists behind his eyes.

            “Don’t be like that,” Crowley complains slinging an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, “so what does heaven have you doing? Burning pagan scrolls?”

            Aziraphale buries his head in his arms with a soft clunk. Over the clatter of the bar Cas can hear a muffled, “worse.”

            “Stop being dramatic, and let me know what it is.” Crowley says poking his side. However, his tone has taken a subtle shift from smug to anxious.

            “They want to teach the pharaoh a lesson.” Aziraphale says.

            “That’s it? That’s not so bad, he’s pretty annoying anyway.” Crowley says in relief. For a moment he had been worried something was really wrong.

            Punishing the pharaoh…that sounded familiar, in a very fuzzy way. Cas thinks harder, ignoring the headache. Something he had read in the Old Testament was slowly coming back to him.

            “But they are also punishing all the Egyptians too. They plan to slaughter all the first born sons of every non-Jew, and as heaven’s representative on Earth they want me to lead it!” Aziraphale wails.

            Yes, that sounded very familiar now. Cas remembers Naomi mentioning that.

            “Like all of them. Even the babies?” Crowley asks. Strictly out of curiosity of course, as a demon it’s not like he cared about innocent babies.

            “Yes!” Aziraphale says.

            “Infanticide, that’s a new low for Heaven. But how will they know which babies they aren’t supposed to be murdering?” Crowley asks.

            “The chosen people have already been informed to put lambs blood over their doorway.” Aziraphale says.

            “So let me get this straight. Heaven is planning to swoop down here and start smiting babies. And where exactly do you think those baby souls will end up?” Crowley asks. He doesn’t wait for a response from Aziraphale, “Heaven of course. Hell will never accept baby souls. They’re too pure! This is all just an underhanded way for Heaven to boost their soul count and it’s not fair. Some of those babies will grow up to be splendid sinners.”

            Aziraphale stares at him drunkenly.

            “Well thanks for letting me know angel. I’m off to get some lamb blood. No way am I letting the angels end this quarter with a better soul count than Hell.” Crowley says, storming off.

            Aziraphale watches him go. He contemplates sobering up to ask him what just happened, and then shrugs and orders another drink.

            With a worried glance at Aziraphale, Cas follows Crowley out, not fully trusting the demons intentions. However, Crowley merely miracles up a pail of blood and gets to work. He evens seems to be enjoying himself as he scrawls rude messages and drawings above people’s doors in blood.

            By the time he has finished night has fallen and neighbors are arguing in their yards; blaming each other for the blood. A few fist fights break out as tempers flare, especially when they find the blood stubbornly clings to the doorway despite liberal amounts of water and scrubbing.

            The itchy feeling between his shoulders alerts Crowley to the presence of angels, and he makes a quick getaway to the seediest bar in the city and waits for the fun to start.

            Aziraphale, sober yet resigned, leads the charge. An army of angels spread out behind him in full battle armor. Swords gleam, thirsty for blood in the moonlight. They pass by house after house, smeared with blood. Up one street, and then down another. Cas nervously plays with one of the amulets around his neck, hoping that the charm is strong enough to shield him from dozens of angels, far more perceptive than Aziraphale.   

            He catches sight of a familiar shield and his stomach drops unpleasantly. It’s a different vessel, one that has been completely wiped from his memory, but he still recognizes his own grace burning in the angel’s chest. Castiel examines one of Crowley’s more lewd phrases written in lamb’s blood above the door.

            “Aziraphale, what exactly did you tell the humans?” Castiel asks.

            Aziraphale looks around in poorly concealed relief and wonder, “I told them to paint in lamb’s blood above the door. I never told them to write anything.”

            “Is this some sort of joke?” Uriel thunders angrily.

Castiel sniffs the blood.

            “Sulphur. A demon did this.”

            “Oh dear. There has been a bit of a demon problem here lately. He must have saw the humans painting, and decided to give it a try and add his own twist to it. He’s very mischievous like that.” Aziraphale says.  

            “I will destroy him.” Uriel growls. His grace crackles dangerously.

            “No need. I’ll take care of him. Why don’t you all go back to heaven. I know how much of a hassle it is to come all the way down to Earth.” Aziraphale says quickly.

            “Amen to that.” Balthazar says sheathing his sword. One by one the angels disappear back to heaven. Uriel hangs around, still muttering threats to any and all demons in the area. It takes more gentle persuading, and some not so subtle hints that his vessel may be infested with lice, before Aziraphale can convince Uriel to leave his vessel and return to heaven.

            Castiel is the last angel to leave.

            “Is everything alright, dear?” Aziraphale asks kindly.

            “Yes…just something feels off.” Castiel surveys the surrounding buildings with suspicion. Cas leans back deeper into the shadows, clutching his amulet.

            “Demons do make one off balance.” Aziraphale pats his shoulder sympathetically, “You’ll feel better once you get back to heaven.”

            Castiel nods distractedly, still looking around. His eyes sweep over the alleyway Cas has hidden himself in. Castiel makes a movement as if he plans to investigate further, and Cas prepares for the strangest confrontation of his life.

            “Perhaps you should be getting back to heaven dear. I’m sure you have many tasks waiting for you, and I really should start searching for that dastardly demon.” Aziraphale says. Castiel looks between Aziraphale and the alleyway before nodding. He disappears to the sound of invisible wings. Cas sighs in relief.

            Aziraphale finds the seediest bar in the city, the kind of bar that even the toughest of thugs would think twice about entering. The kind of bar that no angel would dare set foot in. The kind of bar that is teeming with sin and vice. Then he enters it.

            In a far corner, surrounded by many bottles of the finest alcohol one can get in a place like this, is Crowley.

            He smiles lazily up at Aziraphale.

            “So how did you heavenly mission go?”

            Aziraphale’s lips twitch.

            “Terrible. It seems that the forces of Heaven have been outsmarted by a demon with a bucket. Uriel is furious.”

            “Uriel needs to get a sense of humor.” Crowley scoffs.

            Aziraphale laughs, a hysterical relief filled laugh. Crowley hands him a bottle of brown liquid that Aziraphale is sure will get him drunk faster than a smiting from an angrily Uriel.

            “Thank you.” Aziraphale says quietly. Crowley doesn’t say anything, but throughout the night Aziraphale finds his cup never empty.  

            Outside the bar another angel plays with an amulet around his neck. He can’t remember the first time he experienced ancient Egypt, but somehow he is quite sure that he prefers this new version better.


	22. Déjà Vu at the Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas watches a familiar scene play out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long to get out. I'm not as pleased with it as I am other chapters, but I didn't want to make you all wait any longer. Enjoy and tell me what you think of it!

            The Library of Alexandria towers over the city as the sole place of knowledge and learning for miles around. Men and women traveled from all over the known world to study within its walls.

            Therefore, Cas was not surprised to find that a certain angel had also taken up residence at the great building. He had always thought that if circumstances had been different Aziraphale would have enjoyed his trip to the library, he was glad to see that he was right.

            Crowley looks decidedly less comfortable as he walks through the halls lined with scroll stacked shelves. His sandals click against the stone, drawing annoyed glares from the patrons. When he finally finds a familiar figure half hidden behind a pile of dusty books, he throws himself in the chair across from him.

            Aziraphale doesn't look up. Cas isn't sure he even realizes that Crowley is there. Apparently Crowley has the same doubts as he sighs loudly. Aziraphale reluctantly pulls his eyes away from a particularly long scroll that he has been reading.

            "Yes?"

            "Do you know where I've been angel?" Crowley asks.

            Aziraphale takes in Crowley’s unusually damp tunic. Then he looks at Crowley,s hands, which are red and pealing, as if they are experiencing a very bad sunburn. Except, demons didn't get sunburned...

            "You've been down to the docks. I assume you were getting into mischief on Julius Caesar’s boats" Aziraphale says

            "His blessed boats" Crowley seethes. Cas smiles. It had been amusing to watch Crowley slink on board the ship only to fling himself over the side of the boat minutes later as the holiness began to burn. He had flailed around helplessly in the water until a passing fisherman had rescued him. Apparently demons don't know how to swim

            "I wonder who could have blessed those boats" Crowley says with thinly veiled fury.

            Aziraphale blinks at him politely. "I did, of course"

            "And you didn't think to warn me?"

            "I meant to...but a new shipment of books have just come in and Ramses promised me that I could look over them before he put them out on the floor" Aziraphale says apologetically.

            The apology is somewhat ruined when he added, "of course, it's not really my fault that you decided to cause trouble."

            Cas barely chokes back a laugh. Crowleys face flushes angrily.

            "I was doing my job!"

            "So was I. It was a direct order from heaven" Aziraphale says. Finally realizing that Crowley isn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon he places his book to the side and gives Crowley his full attention.

            "Why is heaven supporting that tyrant?" Crowley sneers.

            "Heaven believes that he will bring stability to the region" Aziraphale says in the tone that suggested he didn't quite agree with heaven.

            "And what do you think?" Crowley asks.

            "If heaven thinks it than it must be true," Aziraphale says. Both Crowley and Cas roll their eyes.

            "However, I do wish they would move the fighting elsewhere. Training drills are not conducive to a good learning environment" he adds

            “Then un-bless those boats and I’ll make sure your guy Julius moves down river,” Crowley says.

            “Don’t try to tempt me dear,” Aziraphale chides him.

            “Fine.” Crowley sighs dramatically, “I’ll go figure something out.”

            He stands up and straightens his still damp tunic, and smooths down his hair, which is beginning to dry at odd angles.

            “I do hope you’ll leave Caesar alone, I would rather not have to fight you.” Aziraphale calls after his retreating back.

            Crowley ignores him.

            Back down by the docks Crowley watches Julius Caesar’s boats with contempt. After a few hours of brainstorming, four more failed attempts to get around the blessing and one more dunk in the water Crowley had to admit that perhaps the angel had won this one.

            He sulks as he makes it back to his home at the palace of the young King Ptolemy XIII. When he originally became counselor to King Ptolemy he had such high hopes of molding a great dictator out of him. Instead he had been disappointed to find the boy distractible and dull. Pushing him to sin was easy enough but lacked the excitement of a challenge, or even stimulating conversation. Not even the advent of the war had made him a more interesting person.

            Once back at the palace he locks himself in his bedchambers and begins drinking his way through his frustrations. He’s halfway drunk when there’s a knock on the door. Biting back a rude comment Crowley waves his hand and the door swings open.

            “King Ptolemy demands the presence of all counselors in the war room.” The guard says.

Crowley groans. As if today hadn’t already been bad enough, the last thing he wanted to do was listen to King Ptolemy flounder through his war plans. Crowley longed to take the lead; he had sat in on enough war conferences throughout the ages to become something of a strategic expert, but King Ptolemy never took his excellent advice. Instead, choosing whatever plan sounded the easiest every time.

            By the time Crowley sobers up enough to drag himself to the meeting the war conference has already begun.

            “So in the matter of granting Julius Caesar’s enemy refuge, yay or nay?” Ptolemy asks. There is some mumbling from the gathered members of counsel. Mumbling cryptically seemed to be a requirement to become a member of counsel. Crowley rolls his eyes, he has a bottle of wine waiting for him upstairs and no patience for human politics today.

            “I vote Nay.” He says. The members mumble some more until one by one the Nay votes come pouring in.

            “So it is decided then. We refuse refuge,” Ptolemy says looking relieved. Housing a refugee was expensive, and he had no interest in getting on Julius Caesar’s bad side.

            Hours later Crowley is still working through that bottle of wine, who knows better than to let itself go empty before Crowley is properly drunk, when he hears shouting outside of his window. Damn humans. It’s like they are incapable of ever expressing their emotions quietly. When they are sad they sob and wail, when they are happy they practically shriek with delight, and when they are angry they shout and slam doors. Couldn’t God had created a more subtle species Crowley wonders as he watches the argument unfold below his window.

            Apparently, Pompey was unhappy with being denied refuge. As he screams at the guard unlucky enough to break the bad news, the guard’s frown grows deeper. The guard is annoyed, but has never been one that is quick to anger. Crowley nudges him towards wrath.

            The guard unsheathes his sword. Pompey spits in his face. This time the guard doesn’t even need a push from Crowley to feel the spark of rage ignite in his chest. He shoves the blade through Pompey’s heart. He falls to the ground, dead before he can understand what just happened.

            Pompey’s blank eyes stare up at Crowley. Crowley retreats from the window, and takes a gulp of wine. He never meant that to happen, but humans were just so unpredictable when they were angry. Actually humans were pretty unpredictable when they were happy too, and when they were feeling pretty much any emotion.

            Firmly pushing away the tiny niggle of guilt Crowley conjures up a dozen more bottles of wine.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            It is almost a month later before Crowley is forced to think about Pompey again. King Ptolemy is raging around the palace. By the time Crowley comes down the stairs for breakfast, King Ptolemy has already sentenced two servants to death and kicked over a lovely potted plant. Crowley gently resets the plant scoops the dirt back into its pot.

            “It’s alright,” Crowley says patting its glossy leaves.

            “No it is not!” King Ptolemy says, assuming that Crowley must be talking to him. He’s not, but to avoid being discorporated by the petulant child of a king Crowley pretends that he was.

            “What is troubling you, your highness?” Crowley asks, bowing deeply.

            “Did you know that the refugee that we killed last month was Julius’s son-in-law?” King Ptolemy asks in a deadly quiet voice.

            “Can’t say that I did, but what does it matter? He was an enemy of Julius’s anyway,” Crowley says.

            “It matters because when we presented him with Pompey’s severed head, do you know what he did? He cried!” Ki ng Ptolemy fumes. He kicks over the recently righted potted plant in frustration. Crowley sets it right and glares at him. The plant is in no way responsible for this situation, and personally Crowley likes the plant much more than he likes Ptolemy.

            “He’s declared war on us,” King Ptolemy continues obliviously, “I’ve already rallied my navy in response.”

            Crowley perks up, “The navy? Are you attacking those monstrous boats that he has had docked in the harbor for weeks?”

            “They will be the first things destroyed.” King Ptolemy says confidently. Crowley smiles, “Sire, I think this is the best thing that could have happened.” He hurries out. He can’t wait to see Aziraphale’s face when he sees his blessed boats blown apart.

            The battle is raging by the time he gets there. Crowley is not shocked to find that Aziraphale isn’t there. He honestly doubts that Aziraphale has even noticed the battle taking place in the library’s shadow. Smoke billows over the water as burning ships and men sink beneath the surface.

            Fire, now that was a demon’s best friend. Like a conductor leading a symphony Crowley raises his arms, the fire jumps higher in response. He swoops his arms in an arch and the flames leap to an undamaged boat. Holy boat, meet demon fire, Crowley thinks smugly as he watches the wood crumble to ashes. The fire dances to music only Crowley can hear and when he’s sure that there are no more boats left, he lets his hands drop to his side and takes in the resulting chaos as humans try to minimize the damage.

            Time to pay Aziraphale another visit. Crowley looks at the library which is practically glowing in the midday sun. No, wait…it is glowing. He blinks smoke out of his eyes and looks again. The library isn’t glowing, it’s on fire.

            Entertainment forgotten Crowley races towards the library, pushing aside scholars who get in his way as they run out of the burning building. He scans the area for a familiar blonde head and almost misses him.

            “What the bloody hell are you doing?” He shouts at what looks like a sentient pile of scrolls with legs.

            “I’m saving as many as I can.” Aziraphale says from somewhere in the middle. A hand reaches out and grabs another scroll and tosses it on top of the already unstable pile.

            “The building is on fire.” Crowley says uselessly.

            “I noticed.” Aziraphale says dryly, “I assume you had something to do with it, but we can talk about that later. Help me get these scrolls out.”

            Crowley wants to argue that there is nothing in this room that is worth getting discorporated over, but Aziraphale doesn’t give him a chance. Before he know what’s happening he finds himself with an armload of scrolls almost as big as Aziraphale’s.

            Watching them from behind the shelves, hidden by thick black smoke Cas also grabs a few scrolls on the way out. He’s more concerned, however, with manipulating the fire to clear a path for Crowley and Aziraphale, who were both so loaded with scrolls they couldn’t even see where they were going and were literally relying on faith, or in Aziraphale’s case _Faith_ , to get them out.

            Once outside Crowley drops his pile.

            Aziraphale tsks at him before finding another scholar to gently hand his pile off to. Then together they turn and look back at the once beautiful library. The fire has taken on a life of its own, and demons, while rather good at starting fires are complete rubbish at putting them out. Aziraphale tries not to look heartbroken. It’s not the most tragic thing he’s seen in his very long life, but it’s always sad to see a much loved place destroyed, either by a sudden occurrence or even by the progression of time. It was something he saw regularly, after all nothing humans built lasted forever, but never got fully used to seeing.

            From a distance Cas watches the Library burn as well and feels a disappointing sense of déjà vu. He takes a small amount of comfort in the fact that at least this time it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault.


	23. A baby is born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Castiel contemplate The Plan on a very special night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad I got this chapter up much faster than the other one! I hope you enjoy. As always, don't hesitate to tell me what you think.

            The weeks leading up to the birth of the Christ child had been filled with celebration and anticipation in heaven…for most. For Castiel the weeks leading up to the birth had been filled with heated debate and frustration. He knew that he had crossed the line into blasphemy as he questioned the effectiveness and justness in The Plan. Fortunately his siblings had been kind and his only punishment thus far was a stern lecture and being placed on guard duty for young Jesus. The official reason was that perhaps he would change his mind after seeing The Plan unfold up close. The unofficial reason was that nobody wanted to be stuck on guard duty with Aziraphale. Since his time on Earth, there had been rumors that Aziraphale had gone a bit…native.

            Back on Earth, a different Cas watches Aziraphale from a distance. He’s been observing Aziraphale for weeks as he prepares for the birth of Christ. Crowley is currently in China, having left the moment he found out about the impending birth. He had no desire to be anywhere near the divinity that was sure to be radiating from the infant. Cas had stayed back. He had fond memories of Jesus and couldn’t help but to feel excited at meeting him (again).

            He had long ago made peace with Jesus’s fate. It wouldn’t be the last time Heaven expected far too much from a mortal. Looking back now he could see the similarities between Jesus and the Winchesters. A pang of sadness spasms across his chest.

            The Winchesters. He tries not to think about them, although it’s hard. Every time homemade pies wafts from villages he longs to buy a slice to show to Dean. When new books are written Cas has to stop himself from trying to show a Sam that had not yet been born. On the occasions that the urge to think about them becomes too much he comforts himself with the thought that every passing year brings him closer to their births and, hopefully, a better life for them. 

            Aziraphale’s humming as he sweeps out the stable, pulls Cas from his thoughts. Azirphale cheerfully clears away all animal droppings and brings in a manger from outside. The fluttering of wings tell of an angel arriving and Aziraphale greets the newcomer warmly. Curious Cas strains to see what angel has been chosen to help Aziraphale guard the child. He bites back a groan when he sees a very familiar face.

            “Castiel, you’re early. Jesus won’t be born until tonight.” Aziraphale says.

            “I was sent to help you prepare…why are we in a barn?” Castiel asks.

            “It’s not a barn, it’s a stable and they didn’t tell you? This is where Jesus is being born.”

            “In a stable? That’s unsanitary.” Castiel says.

            Aziraphale waves off his concern, “It’s not like we need to worry about him catching anything. It’s God’s will that he survive, so he will no matter where he is born.”

            “There’s an inn not far from here.” Castiel points out.

            “Yes, but it will be full. It’s on my list of things to do.” Aziraphale assures him.

            “But why does he need to be born in a stable?” Castiel asks.

            “Jesus needs to be humble,” Aziraphale says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He begins smoothing down the hay in the manger, making it as soft and non-itchy as possible without the use of magic.

            “Plenty of humble people have been born in inns,” Castiel huffs.

            “Yes, but this isn’t just ‘a humble person,’ this is the Son of God.” Aziraphale explains patiently. Castiel finds some of the fight go out of him as it normally does when faced with Aziraphale’s unending patience and unwavering faith. He lets the matter drop.

            The birth is loud and messy and painful sounding. Aziraphale, Castiel, and Cas, hiding out of sight, wait outside politely for her to finish. When the sounds of a baby crying Aziraphale breaks into a large grin. Castiel frowns.

            “Don’t you hear him Castiel? He has been born.” Aziraphale beams at him and in his excitement practically glows with divinity.

            “I know.”

            Aziraphale dims just a bit as his smile flickers. “Brother, what is wrong?”

            “You have been informed of Jesus’s fate, correct?” Castiel asks.

            “Of course, he’s going to save humanity from sin.” Aziraphale says, his glow returning ever so slightly.

            “You mean he’s going to die.” Castiel says. From a safe distance Cas listens with a slight smile. His mind wanders to another pair of humans who were asked to die for humanity, but he forces himself to pay attention to Aziraphale’s answer.

            “Death is not the end Castiel. He will be welcomed in Heaven, you know that.”

            “Of course, but what kind of life will he have? He is burdened with the weight of humanity on his shoulders. How is that fair to him?” Castiel asks.

            “Life is not always fair.”

            Castiel and Cas both scoff at that answer.

            “I’m not saying that he deserves it, I’m saying it will be worth it. Besides if he is anything like his father, than I think he will want to do this.”

            Cas considers that answer. He’s seen humans (two in particular come to mind) sacrifice themselves before. Sometimes for the “greater good,” sometimes for all of humanity, and sometimes for just one person. He has always made a point to visit these heavens, curious to what would make one throw out any instinct towards self-preservation, and a bit morbidly curious to see if they regretted it. There were a lot of reasons, mostly centered on affection and a belief in a higher purpose. He wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him however was the lack of regret he sensed in their heavens. Even when he probed deeper all he could sense was the contented feeling of accomplishment and occasionally a twinge of pride. He only really understood those feelings later when he had sacrificed himself to Raphael for the first time.

            Castiel, who has not yet curiously devolved into the question of why humans would want to sacrifice themselves for their fellow man, looks at Aziraphale with skepticism.

            “Perhaps,” He says carefully neutral.

            “Don’t be afraid to question The Plan in front of me,” Aziraphale says softly, “I too wonder at the necessity of it…but I have been around humans long enough to know that they are resilient and loving. When the time comes I truly believe that Jesus will die to save humanity because he will want to, not because The Plan says he has to.”

            They both fall silent after that. Both afraid that they have said too much.

            Neither brings up The Plan or their doubts again, keeping conversation strictly duty related. Only a few weeks later heaven recalls Castiel, certain that there is no planned demon attack. Aziraphale remains on guard just in case, and hidden nearby, so does Cas. Only days after Castiel leaves Mary and Joseph depart from Bethlehem as well, baby Jesus swaddled in Mary’s arms. Both angels watch them go, hidden from the human eye. The baby looks over his mother’s shoulder and waves at the angels.  


	24. Death Never Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching his death for a second time doesn't make it easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little short, but I'm happy with it. Tell me what you think of it in the comments.

            It was rare that Aziraphale was not on Earth. However, these past few weeks it had become increasingly more common. Cas estimated that Aziraphale had spent more time in Heaven this past month than he had in a century.

            Cas felt a twinge of sympathy each time Aziraphale returned from one of his trips looking more and more frustrated and dejected. Nevertheless, there was nothing that could be done. Jesus was going to die on the cross, just as he was fated to, no matter how much Aziraphale debated with the higher ups.

            Over the past few decades both Aziraphale and Cas had grown fond of the human, who was much more brash and stubborn than the Bible would later paint him. Humans always focused on the wrong thing, in Cas’s opinion. Give them the son of God, a temperamental partier who once turned water into wine as a party trick, and humans would paint hundreds of pictures of him cuddling sheep. Not that Jesus didn’t like sheep, it just wasn’t a defining character trait of his.

            Cas stands on the hill. There are two crosses already there, and an empty place where a third will soon join them. In the distance he can see a slow procession coming closer. Jesus is in the front. He doesn’t look like a fun loving sheep hugger today. He looks incredibly young, not much older than Sam Winchester when he made a similar sacrifice for humanity.

            Watching as Jesus makes his final trek for the second time Cas still can’t say he fully agrees with The Plan. However, he has long ago stopped believing in the idea that humans are defenseless against the hands of fate. If Jesus truly in his heart did not believe this to be the right thing to do, Cas knows that this slow moving parade towards death would not be happening.

            As they draw closer Cas allows himself to blend in with the crowd. He wonders if Jesus can sense his presence. If so, he gives no indication that he has noticed Cas. As they nail him to the cross Jesus refuses to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Cas can’t help but to be a little proud by that. He imagines the Winchesters would behave similarly, although perhaps with a bit more swearing.

            The crowd cheers as the cross is raised. It’s a sickening sound. Cas blocks out that sound for another, quieter sound. A prayer.

            _“Lord forgive them. They don’t realize what they are doing.”_

            Cas smiles. He knows in the future theologians will heavily debate whether or not Jesus was an angel. He supposes, given all the misconceptions humans have about angels that is understandable. But he knows that no angel could ever truly be that selfless.

            _“It hurts. Please let it end.”_

            The crowd disperses. Cas remains. Jesus keeps praying, eyes tightly shut.

_“Are you listening?”_

            His breath becomes more ragged as blood slips down his arms. His thin face, looks so young in the harsh sunlight.

_“Forgive them”_

            Small noises of pain escape his lips, along with a drip of blood.

_“Forgive me”_

            Jesus opens his eyes. He smiles as his eyes land on Cas.

            _“Come to take me home angel?”_

            It’s been a long time since anyone has acknowledged him as an angel. Cas gapes at him not sure how to answer. Then Jesus’s eyes roll back in his head and his body sags forward as he breathes his last.

            The cheers that ring out from heaven across angel radio are instantaneous, and almost as sickening as the cheers Cas heard on Earth earlier. As Heaven and Earth cheer the death of Jesus, Cas continues gazing at the body; mourning a young man who died for humanity before he even got the chance to fully appreciate it.


	25. The Crusades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos and bloodshed, everything a demon should love...except not. Religious fervor and holy lands, everything an angel should love...except not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have been slow, and I am so sorry, but I have not abandoned this work and have no intentions of doing so. Please let me know what you think it the comments.

            It has been centuries since Aziraphale held a sword, but one never really forgets. This sword is much less impressive than his previous sword, and Aziraphale is careful not to set it on fire. It wouldn’t do to get accused of witchcraft in the middle of a crusade.

            Aziraphale sighs as he adjusts his grip on the sword. He wasn’t pleased with all this crusade business; it was bloody and dirty and worst off all took him far away from his newly opened bookshop. However, the humans had somehow gotten it into their heads that God cared about one piece of land. They were calling it the Holy Land. Didn’t they know that Father loved all the Earth? The higher ups had been surprised, but pleased, by this forceful demonstration of faith and had immediately demanded the Aziraphale do whatever he could to encourage it.

            _Not that the humans needed help in that regard,_ Aziraphale thinks bitterly. He walks along the aftermath of a battle. Men, who look more like boys, are strewn across the field staring sightlessly at the sky.

            Not far away yellow eyes widen in surprise as he feels the presence of an angel entering the town.

            “About time he got here.” He scoffs grumpily, “certainly took his sweet time.” Crowley continues to grumble as he follows the holiness through the makeshift camp. He ignores the stares he gets from the soldiers. They’re much too distracted and weary to bother giving him more than a raised eyebrow at his quiet ranting.

            “There you are angel. Did you stop at every bookshop between here and London on your way?” Crowley snaps when he finally reaches Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who was busy tending to a man who had been practically impaled and should by all rights be dead, jumps in surprise at Crowley’s declaration. When he turns around and sees Crowley he sighs.

            “I should have known you were behind this. Convincing the humans that one piece of land is holier than the others just to watch them tear themselves to shreds over it, have you no decency?”

            “You think this is my fault?” Crowley asks, surprised and slightly hurt, “I thought you knew me better than that. This isn’t my type sin. Temptation angel, not whatever the hell this is.”

            “Then one of your demon friends perhaps?” Aziraphale suggests.

            “Demons don’t have friends,” Crowley scoffs, “and let’s move this conversation somewhere more private.” Crowley nods at the soldier Aziraphale had been tending to, whose eyes had gone very wide.

            “Yes, um, of course. My tent is this way.” Aziraphale says hastily putting the man into a light sleep. When he awoke he wouldn’t remember the face of the kindly medic who saved his life or his angry dark haired friend. He would however feel a strong sense of unease and the need to pray away worrying thoughts of demons creeping around nearby.

            Aziraphale leads the way to a small white tent, which sits at the end of a row of equally small white tents. Crowley steps through and finds the inside significantly less small. He looks pointedly at Aziraphale, who hastily mumbles about needing room for the miniature alter he has set up. Rolling his eyes, Crowley takes a seat as far away from the alter, and bowl of holy water, as possible. Aziraphale remains standing by the tent flap awkwardly.

            “So what’s the timeline angel? Are you ending this war in a sudden miracle or are you bringing this war to a close stealthily over the next few months?” Crowley asks.

            “Um, neither.”

            Crowley tips back in his chair so he can look Aziraphale in the eye better.

            “What do you mean, neither?”

            Aziraphale shrugs his shoulders helplessly, “my orders aren’t to end the war at all I’m afraid.”

            “And what are your orders then?” Crowley asks. An uncomfortable feeling grows in the pit of his stomach.

            “I’m afraid they wish to encourage it. There’s a lot of men out there showing a level of devotion to the lord that we haven’t seen in decades.”

            The black feeling grows. Crowley leans forward and asks darkly, “And heaven is ok with all the bloodshed?”

            “Of course. Those who fight are have a place in heaven, no matter what their prior sins may be. Heaven is thrilled.” Aziraphale says, keeping his voice neutral. Personally, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with men who seemed to get such enjoyment out of breaking the seventh commandment going straight to heaven un-vetted like this. However, his concerns had been ignored, something that had been growing all too common recently.

            “And what are your orders? How does Hell feel about this?” Aziraphale asks.

            “Mixed. On one hand we have humans killing themselves over pointless wars, on the other, we have humans praising God and running around with holy swords.” Crowley shudders. He had almost been killed—not discorporated—killed his first day he showed up because some idiot had the bright idea to bless their sword before swinging it around at the first thing that moved and didn’t have a gaudy cross on their shield.

            “And how do you feel about it?” Aziraphale asks, his face carefully blank.

            Crowley gives him a lazy smile that’s almost convincing, “You know me angel. Wars are bad for my type of business. I prefer my targets to be happily unaware and preferably drunk. War causes people to get all noble and righteous. I want this war over.”

            “Oh,” Aziraphale says, quickly covering up his surprise. He hadn’t expected Crowley to agree with him about wanting the war over, even if his reasoning was different. That was concerning. He really shouldn’t be agreeing with the demon about things like this. Agreeing about little things, like were the best place to get a good drink was, wasn’t a problem of course. That was just good sense. Agreeing about this, however…

            “And how do you feel about the war angel?” Crowley asks.

            Aziraphale looks up to find yellow eyes watching him carefully, he looks away. He wants to say that he hates the war. He hates the dirt and the cold bland tent that is so different from his cozy flat back in London. He hates the fact that he has had to leave all his books, save a precious few, thousands of miles away. Most of all he hates the suffering; the boys who charge into battle for God and glory only to find nothing but cold unyielding steel waiting for them, the sickness and infections that claim almost as many lives as the fighting does, and the knowledge that heaven is promoting such suffering because the angels are enjoying the ego boost it all gives them. It’s disgusting.

            Instead he plasters on a bland smile. “I would prefer to be in London, but Heaven prefers me here, so here I am.” It’s a mean nothing response, delivered in such a neutral tone that one would think that Aziraphale truly had no opinion on the war. Crowley was not just anybody.

            “That’s not an answer angel,” He says flatly.

            Aziraphale fixes him with a politely puzzled look, as if he truly has no idea what Crowley means.

            “You hate this as much as I do.” Crowley says.

            Aziraphale shrugs, “Hate is a strong word. I may not fully understand what role the crusade has in the Great Plan, but it is not my place to question ineffability.”

            “Or you’re just too much of a coward to.” Crowley snaps. That got a reaction on Aziraphale. His eyes narrow, and the sword strapped to his side smokes slightly through its sheath.   

            “Coward? You’re one to talk.”

            “Me? I’m not the one letting people stab each other to avoid offending my bosses. Or does Heaven not care about the seventh commandment anymore?” Crowley sneers.

            “Don’t talk to me about commandments, you snake in the grass. Half the time you’re encouraging them to be broken left and right. I bet you like the crusade. All this chaos is right up your alley.” The sword begins to feel uncomfortably hot against Aziraphale’s leg.

            “Already told you, it’s not my type of sinning.”

            “Demons like all types of sin. You’re just trying to get me speak ill of Heaven and The Plan.” Aziraphale snaps.

            “Is that what you really think? Or do you just embarrassed to admit that Heaven is wrong and a demon is right?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale flinches and not just because his sword has finally caught fire. As Aziraphale hurries to put it out, Crowley storms out of the tent.

            Crowley doesn’t even notice the dark haired man who is polishing his blade as he storms past, but the man’s blue eyes watch him carefully. _So Crowley wants this war over with as well…I hate agreeing with Crowley._ Castiel sighs in disappointment. He had such high hopes that Aziraphale was going to stop the war, but this only confirmed the suspicions that he had been having for the past few weeks: This Heaven enjoyed the crusades just as much as his own had. It was a troubling thought. These timelines had so many similarities, did this mean that the apocalypse was unavoidable in this timeline as well? He shakes his head. The apocalypse was still centuries away and he had more pressing matters to worry about.

            Having followed Aziraphale all the way from London, and now seeing that he has no inclination to end the fighting, Cas makes the choice to now follow Crowley. He follows Crowley for most of the day. He observes Crowley pausing briefly in front of random tents and occasionally brushing against people as he passed. At first Cas doesn’t paid attention, but as he watches the process repeat itself again and again he grows suspicious. Was this Crowley’s way of venting his frustrations at Aziraphale?

            The next time Crowley stops at a tent Cas watches closely, then as Crowley walks away Cas peeks inside. It’s one of the food storage tents, and it’s fuller than Cas has seen it since they left England. Cas sniffs the food checking for poison, magic or otherwise and finds it fine. Completely normal food. A small smile tugs at his lips. Fresh food would be very appreciated by the men. Cas had been wanting to do something like this, but had held back out of fear of alerting Aziraphale to his presence, and Aziraphale has been running himself ragged dealing with the injuries to even remember that food was something in short supply around here.

            The smile slips off moments later when he looks up at the demon who is sauntering out of camp. Why had Crowley given them food? Why would Crowley, potentially the future king of Hell, care about the suffering of man?

            This is not the first time Cas has seen Crowley display altruism over the centuries of stalking him, but every time Cas firmly reminds himself that Crowley doesn’t do anything unless he somehow benefits from it. Perhaps Crowley was lying about wanting the war to end. If he does want to prolong it than it would be necessary for the invading army to be well stocked and healthy. Still, even that explanation didn’t sit right with Cas. Restocking the food was such a minor thing in the grand scheme of things, and there were other crueler ways to prolong a war. Cas vows to keep a close eye on Crowley until he can figure out his end game.  

            Despite his promise, when the battle finally comes Cas has a hard time keeping track of Crowley or Aziraphale. He can sense both demonic and angelic presence on the battlefield, but the sheer number of holy weapons being used in this fight makes it difficult to pinpoint any exact location. Cas quickly loses himself to the routine of battle. As his body responds to attacks with the ease of someone who has trained for eons he allows his mind to wonder.

            There is little risk of Aziraphale getting discorporated here. Even an angel as out of practice at sword fighting as he is more than capable of holding his own against humans. Though a part of Cas kind of wishes Aziraphale could be felled. It would certainly solve a lot of problems. Aziraphale would be away from the bloodshed that Cas knows is upsetting him despite what he claimed to Crowley, and Cas could work much easier without Aziraphale around to notice his presence.

            Cas knocks a man out with the hilt of his angel blade than spins around to take out the second man trying to sneak up behind him. Between Aziraphale and himself, Cas is very sure he has the superior sword fighting abilities. He could easily discorporate Aziraphale and send him far away from this.

_No. Too risky to get that close._

            Cas shatters a man’s arm, then knocks him out. He is careful not to kill though. He leaves a trail of unconscious bodies as he fights through the mass of people.

            There is, of course, one other being who could discorporate Aziraphale. Cas’s mind flashes back to blank blue eyes that had stared at him back in the bunker. His stomach lurches. Crowley doesn’t discorporate, he kills. With renewed vigor Cas fights on, looking for Aziraphale.

            Meanwhile, Aziraphale is playing medic to man with blood dripping from a gaping hole in his throat. He gurgles and chokes on his own blood as Aziraphale prays over him. The wound begins to close. The man drifts off as blood loss and the residual effects of a strenuous healing take their toll. Aziraphale lets go. The man will be fine.

            He stands up and looks around for his next patient. His sword remains safely sheathed. Heaven said he had to be here and encourage the war, but they never said he had to take a life.

            “Hello Angel.”

            Aziraphale spins around. Crowley stands in front of him in a crisp white tunic with nary a hair out of place. He’s so clean and calm amongst the filth and fighting that he looks out of place.

            Aziraphale takes out his sword. It’s unblessed. Aziraphale isn’t sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

            “Still enjoying the war?” Crowley asks. He swings his blade, forcing Aziraphale to ungracefully dodge it.

            “I never said I enjoyed it.” Aziraphale says. He blocks Crowley’s next to attacks and even launches one of his own which takes the demon by surprise.

            “Are you saying you don’t love following every order like a good puppet?” Crowley asks sharply.

            Aziraphale doesn’t answer. His sword grows hot in his grip and he forces himself to calm down and focus.

            “Look at them all dying for God; must make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” Crowley continues. He is relentless in his attack, forcing Aziraphale back. Aziraphale trips on a dead body and stumbles.

            He rights himself quickly, but not before Crowley carves a deep groove into his shoulder.

            “You know I don’t like fighting. I never have. But what do you want from me? Disobedience? Do you want me to fall Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

            “No angel, I don’t.”

            Aziraphale is surprised by the honesty in Crowley’s voice. A small part of him had always whispered that his hesitant acquaintanceship was all a part of a ruse on Crowley’s part to make him fall. Distracted, Aziraphale misses Crowley lunging, knocking him off his feet.

            “I just need you out of the way for a while.”

            He plunges the blade into Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale squirms as his body tried to fight the inevitable, but Crowley is persistent as he presses down. Cold metal tears through soft flesh. The body goes still, and Crowley feels his presence leave the Earth.

            He pulls the blade out of Aziraphale’s chest.

            “Sorry Angel, but ending this will be easier for both of us if you aren’t here.”

             Crowley saunters off without a backwards glance, confident that once Aziraphale is back on Earth there will be the mother of all lectures for him, but for now Crowley doesn’t have to worry about lectures or grumpy angels. For now, he has important people’s ears to whisper into and a crusade to end.

            Cas remembers battles that he has fought in that lasted years, decades even. Angels and demons battling, with no need to sleep or eat. But the battle here is fought by men, and slowly as more and more men fall the rhythm of the battle falls with them. Soon the battle is nothing more than staggering groups of humans tending to their wounded and collecting the dead.

            Cas picks his way through the field and back to the tents, sure that Aziraphale will already be there, peeling off blood soaked armor and pouring a hot cup of tea. Cas waits over an hour for Aziraphale to return.

_He must be helping the injured._ Castiel makes his way back to the battlefield. Only those the most dedicated to helping or desperate to find their friends have remained. Cas closes his eyes and reaches out for the presence of an angel. He frowns when he can’t find anything. Using his more human senses, he scans the horizon for a familiar blonde head. That too yields no results. Concern grows, especially when he realizes that Crowley is nowhere to be seen as well.

            Cas picks up his pace, until he is nearly running. He ignores the dead completely and spares the injured barely more than a passing glance, mind too occupied with worry to help them.

            A man lays dying, but too stubborn to give up without a fight. Blood seeps out between fingers from a deep stomach wound. He had once been a baker, but caught up in religious fever and the spirit of adventure he had left that life behind. He regrets that choice now. He watches a dark haired soldier race pass. Determined not to die alone the man reaches out and grabs the soldier’s ankle.

            Cas trips. Surprised, his hands don’t even try to catch him as he falls face first in the mud. Cas glares at the man still holding his ankle, but his glare softens as he observes the blood; far, far, too much coats the man’s front. Cas waves his hand.

            Muscle and skin knits itself back together, and blood stains fade away. The man stumbles to his feet, terrified. This is magic, and he is unsure if it is divine or witchcraft. He recites the Lord’s Prayer as he runs back to his tent. He deserts the army later that night.

            Cas watches him go, faintly bemused by his panic. Then Cas turns his heard and finds himself face to face with blank blue eyes. Cas lets his eyes roam over the body, lingering on the sword wound in the gut. The scene is painfully familiar. _Crowley._ The smug bastard. Guilt and bile rise up. How could he had been so careless? He knew better than anyone else what Crowley was capable of, of how dangerous he was, especially to Aziraphale.

            Tears slip down Cas’s face. He tried so hard in this timeline to not repeat his mistakes. Failing now felt like being stabbed. Cas brushes away the dirt smeared across Aziraphale’s cheek. Lying here Aziraphale looks just like all the other dead. Nameless and forgotten.

_Wait…_

            Cas looks at Aziraphale closer. Aziraphale’s rosy cheeks are pale, his eyes lifeless, and his front covered in dried blood. He looks like the hundreds of others spread across the field. Cas flicks his eyes to either side of him. He sees nothing but bloodstained grass and dirt. A relieved smile quickly turns into a chuckle which them morphs into a laugh bordering on hysterical.

_No scorched wings. Discorporated not dead._

            Cas wrestles himself under control, still smiling faintly at the body. On one hand this was still probably Crowley’s doing, on the other hand nobody, not even Aziaphale himself, really wanted Aziraphale here. Except possibly Heaven, but Cas had long stopped caring about their opinions. Cas had a feeling Aziraphale was going to take his sweet time getting back to Earth.

~*~*~*~

            In Heaven, Aziraphale sits at his desk. Over two centuries of paperwork is piled up. It will take decades to sort through it all, possibly even longer if he wants to be thorough. Aziraphale’s pen scratches away diligently. He decides he is going to be very thorough with this batch of paperwork. Besides, he needs the time to think about what to say to Crowley next time he sees them. He kind of thinks the words “thank you” should be there, but maybe he will just leave those unspoken. Crowley is good about picking up on unspoken things like that.


	26. Agnes Nutter never changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A book written by a witch and a woman who is not a witch. Cas has seen this all before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's an early Christmas present! Happy Holidays everybody!

            Of all the places on Earth that his brother could have chosen to settle down in, Cas will never understand Aziraphale’s choice of England. Rain slips down his collar and runs along his spine. As a rule angels aren’t affected by things like cold weather, but the gray and dreary scenery and way humans scurried out of the rain leaving the streets devoid of life was just depressing. Cas supposed that when one owned a bookstore with a fireplace and an overstuffed chair the whole rain-on-the-windowpane thing perhaps added to an overall atmosphere of coziness. Unfortunately Cas didn’t have a bookstore with a fireplace or an overstuffed chair.

            Not that it mattered. Ever since the crusade Cas had slowly been going out more on his own, leaving both Crowley and Aziraphale unsupervised for years on end. Aziraphale seemed quite content to settle down in his little corner of London, spreading cheer and good deeds to the surrounding area. Crowley was a bit more adventurous, still traveling the world to spread discord and mayhem, but in recent decades he had begun spending more and more time in England as well. 

            Crowley was endlessly fascinating to Cas though. He still wasn’t sure if he trusted the demon, but it was becoming easier to see him as a different person than the King of Hell. This Crowley was much less ambitious and, perhaps even a little less cruel. Cas was beginning to see a lot of little changes to the timeline, largely stemming to Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s constant presence on Earth.

            A big rain drop splattering on his face draws Cas out of his musings. _Right, the mission._ Almost as amazing as the differences were the things that had managed to stay the same. In this case, The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. Cas had been surprised when he first heard rumor of an unofficial prophet in England. Upon further investigation he found the rumor confirmed, and what’s more she had thus far managed to escape Heaven’s notice. Even Aziraphale remained oblivious to her prophesizing.

            Cas stands in front of a bookstore. It’s not the same bookstore he has carefully watched for years. It’s much bigger, less personal, and Cas is pretty sure if he goes in there the proprietor would be quite happy to sell him a book.

            The store’s collection was nothing compared to Aziraphale’s. Although the owner had only been in business for a scant 40 years. As he perused Cas saw familiar titles among the shelves. In a far corner, as if almost embarrassed to be there at all, was a familiar stack of books. Cas smiles. The last time he had seen one of these it had been slowly turning to ash. He flips through the pages.

            “Anything I can help you with today sir?” A voice asks. An older man with eyes like Aziraphale is smiling at him.

            “I think I’ve found what I want.” Cas holds up the book. The man practically lights up with happiness.

            “Finally. I’ve been waiting for someone to buy a copy.”

            “Oh? Has it not been popular?” Cas asks.

            “No, and such a shame, from the moment I saw it I could tell this book is going to change the world. That’s why I ordered so many copies.”

            Cas smiles, “perhaps it will.”

            The man rings up his purchase and Cas hurries to the room he has been renting for the past few months. As he skims through the first few prophecies he takes out a notebook. Deciphering this is going to take a few years. He hopes Crowley and Aziraphale will keep an eye on each other while he’s busy.    

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

            Hours later, Cas is still locked away reading the prophecies. Meanwhile Crowley watches a procession go by. His ears ring unpleasantly as a priest shouts the Lord’s Prayer. They call the woman a witch. She’s not a witch and even if she was that doesn’t mean she’s evil. Just looking at her Crowley can see she’s one of the sweet tempered goody-good types that Aziraphale is so fond of.

            It’s not his place to interfere, unless it’s to make things worse, but he follows anyway. He sticks to the fringes of the crowd so nobody will see the way he winces at the praying. They chain the woman to the stake and read the charges. They light the fire without giving her a chance to plead for mercy.

            Burnt flesh is a smell that Crowley has become intimately acquainted with over the centuries, but it never fails to make him gag. There is little he can do here, and a night of drinking sounds better and better the longer he stands in the crowd.

            His hand twitches. Nobody hears the woman’s neck snap as she goes limp. Crowley slinks out of the crowd and to the nearest bar.

            He is steadily making his way through his third bottle of whisky when he feels the tug of a summoning. With a groan, Crowley sobers up. These things are unpleasant enough without him stumbling around like a drunken moron.

            When he appears in the summoning circle his first instinct is to look around for men in dark robes. There were always at least a half dozen men in dark robes at summonings, as if they thought dark robes were required to make the summoning work. They weren’t and most people looked horrible in them, in Crowley’s opinion.

            After spinning in a full circle Crowley concludes that in this summoning there are no dark robe wearing men. There are, however, two young girls. The older one has eyes just like the “witch” from earlier. The younger one has her mother’s hair.

            “You want to make a deal?” he asks, surprise coloring his voice.

            “Yes,” her voice wobbles, but she looks him straight in the eye, which is something few people are brave enough to do. Crowley respects that.

             “I want to make sure that neither me nor my sister is ever accused of being a witch and burnt at the stake. Can you do that?”

            Crowley looks her over thoughtfully. She couldn’t have been more than ten and here she was alone in the world with a younger sister to protect as well. It would be heartbreaking if Crowley cared about humans and their problems…which he definitely did not.

            “I can swing that,” he promises.

            “I have to give you my soul now don’t I?” the girl says resignedly, sounding far older than she should.

            “Not this time. This one is on the house,” Crowley says. Her face lights up and she leans forward giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before scampering off with her sister.

            Crowley watches them go. Aziraphale is going to owe him, big time.


	27. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas takes a trip. Aziraphale and Crowley discuss politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters up in a month, I'm on a roll. Although, I admit this is a short one. Enjoy and tell me what you think!

            A spray of ocean water hits the deck, thoroughly soaking three of the four men who stand at the bow. The fourth man side steps the spray with supernatural precision. His companions don’t notice. Grumbling, the other men return to their jobs while Cas looks out over the ocean. The water is choppy and the waves are getting progressively bigger as the skies darken. The year is 1771. In a few short years there will be a war and a birth of new nation, and Cas plans on being there for it.

            Cas hadn’t given much thought to America the first time around, but now he can’t help but to feel a thrill of excitement. America; the birthplace of Sam and Dean Winchester. The creation of the new nation brought him one step closer to the Winchesters. Recently, Cas has found himself missing America. He missed the miles of open highway, driving down the road in his Lincoln, burgers. He _really_ missed burgers. Somewhere between cases with the Winchesters and nights in crappy hotels, America had become his home. He had a sneaking suspicion that England had become the same thing to Aziraphale.

            The boat rocks dangerously in the storm. Down below a few men pray nervously. With a small quirk of his lips Cas rests a hand on wooden railing of the ship. The storm doesn’t calm, but it doesn’t matter. The ship will weather the storm. Cas has no plans to delay his trip home.

~*~*~*~

            Aziraphale pours Crowley another glass of expensive wine. They are in the back of his shop relaxing from a long day of thwarting and whiling respectively, and the conversation had finally meandered to politics. Human politics at least, both avoided the topic of cosmic politics as much as possible.  

            “I just don’t see what the big deal is. We pay taxes.” Aziraphale says.

            “I don’t.” Crowley corrects with a smirk. Aziraphale glares at him over his glass of wine.

            “Well, you should be, _I do_ and so does any upstanding British citizen. The colonists should be no exception.”

            “When was the last time you visited the Colonies?” Crowley asks taking a sip, tactfully ignoring Aziraphales rebuke about his taxes.

            “Late 1600s, just before that awful witch business. It’s a nice area, but I found it lacking in modern comforts.” Aziraphale says.

            “Not enough bookshops?”

            Aziraphale finishes the last of his wine. The bottle is also disappointingly empty and he disappears into the next room in search of another bottle. When he returns, he’s carrying a white. Crowley inspects it.

            “1666, good year.”

            “Of course you would say that,” Aziraphale sniffs, “Now where was I. Oh yes, I just can’t understand why they would want to be anything other than loyal subjects to the crown.”

            “Being loyal to a king that’s never around and doesn’t really understand what’s happening on the ground? No thank you. I can see why they rebelled,” Crowley says his voice oddly harsh for a discussion on human politics. As a rule neither one got overly invested in human politics; people lived such short lives and no empire lasted forever.

            Aziraphale opens his mouth to reply, but something in Crowley’s voice stops him. Crowley glances up at him quickly before glancing away, embarrassed.

            “It’s nothing. I just like rooting for the underdog and these rebellious colonists have spirit.”

            Aziraphale’s smile is a bit too understanding for Crowley’s liking.

            “Yes they do.”

            They each have another glass of wine in silent companionship.

            “Heaven is staying out of the war.” Aziraphale says quietly.

            “So is Hell.”

            “I suppose we will just have to let the humans work this one out for themselves.”

            Crowley takes in the sweet taste of wine thoughtfully.

            “I think they can do it.” He says firmly. Aziraphale doesn’t disagree.


	28. World War II take II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody really enjoys World War II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everybody had a fun and safe New Year. Please enjoy and let me know what you think in the comments below.

            World War Two has been raging for almost three years, and it is shaping up to be just as violent and bloody as before. The only incredibly minor silver lining the war had brought with it, was that Cas could finally stop referring to World War 1 as “The Great War.” He had slipped up a few times in the 30s and it always got him odd looks.

            Cas hated those looks. Too many of those looks led to suspicious questions, which led Cas picking up and leaving town yet again. Speaking of leaving town… Cas is leaving tonight. He’s shipping out with the 107th infantry regiment. He can’t remember much of how he spent the war the first time around, and he assumes Naomi had something to do with that, but he refuses to sit out this time around. He hopes Aziraphale and Crowley are doing their part to aid in the war effort.  

            ~*~*~*~

            Aziraphale heard a lot of talk on the radio, in newspapers, and on the street about “doing your part” for the war effort. He liked to think that he did do his part. He rationed like a good citizen and for the first time in history kept the bookshop open late. Mainly for the purpose of giving those on the street a quick place to go during the air raids that were becoming increasingly common, but also because he understood the value of escaping into a good book during hard times like these. However, he was fully aware that there was more he could be doing.

            Which is why on a cool March night when the air raid sirens began wailing and Aziraphale saw the apartment building across the street get hit he wasted no time in running across to help. There was only one fatality in that apartment building that night. Old Mr. Fell, who bravely ran in to the burning building again and again, ran in once and never made it out. They never even found his body, the fire was burning just too hot that night for anything of poor old Mr. Fell to be left. The neighbors said he was a real hero.

            Once in Heaven Aziraphale is able to get down to the real heroic business; convincing heaven to end the war.  Unfortunately, this version of heroics involved a lot of paperwork. He’s elbow deep in paperwork filling out all the necessary waivers, request forms, and applications when the door opens behind him. The slight breezes causes a whole stack of papers to fly across the desk and scatter around the room.

            “Sorry. Balthazar said you were back in Heaven.”

            Castiel stands in the doorway awkwardly. He picks up one of the papers that has come to rest against his shoe. He reads it.

            “You’re requesting to stop The War.”

            “Well, yes. It’s quite an awful mess down there right now. This is even worse than the last one.”

            Castiel frowns. Aziraphale nervously shifts from one foot to the other. He knows that most of the angels are at best apathetic to the war, while some are enthusiastically using it as an excuse to start discussing the apocalypse. He’s been away from heaven for so long he isn’t entirely sure where Castiel stands on the issue.  

            “Do you need help?”

            Aziraphale beams at him. He knew he always liked Castiel.

            “Thank you dear.”

            Even with the two of them working it would still take months, but now Aziraphale had just a little bit more faith that his request would be taken seriously. Clearly Father had sent Castiel to help. It was ineffable.

~*~*~*~

            After the tragic death of kindly Mr. Fell the good, albeit occasionally eccentric, people of Soho weren’t exactly sure what to do with the shop. Mr. Fell had been a quiet fellow and nobody knew if he had any relatives or even how they would get in contact with them if he did.

            Thankfully, the problem was solved a scant three days after his death when a young man came speeding down the street. He was handsome, wearing expensive clothes, and the absolute last person one would expect working in a bookshop. He claimed to be a nephew, but nobody could see any family resemblance. Still he took over the bookshop with surprising diligence and enthusiasm.

            He normalized hours, kept up Mr. Fell’s kindness by keeping the doors open during air raids, and failed to sell a single book. He wasn’t as pleasant as Mr. Fell, often times he was foul tempered and bitingly sarcastic, but people got used to him, accepting him as one of their own.

             As the war dragged on more and more shops and houses disappeared into fiery smoke and ash, but never Mr. Fell’s shop. The young kids said Mr. Fell’s ghost haunted the shop, keeping it safe from bombs and annoying customers. The old ladies who liked to gossip outside of church said the shop was blessed from heaven. The rest just called it dumb luck.

            Mr. Fell’s nephew always gave his most charming smile whenever anyone brought it up and quickly changed the subject. Once he told the children that it wasn’t Mr. Fell’s ghost protecting the shop but a demon using the powers of Hell. The children got a good giggle out of it, and the adults just shook their heads. The man really was a bit of an odd fellow.


	29. Kansas Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas eagerly awaits for destiny to take its course in Kansas.

            _Mary has Dean’s eyes._ It’s the first thought that enters Cas’s head when he sees her. His second thought is that she’s beautiful. From old picture he’s always known that she was lovely, but faded pictures could never do justice to the living human in front of him.

            Tonight is the night that she will meet John Winchester. Cas can’t sense his sibling’s presence, but he is sure someone will be coming along shortly to set the plan in motion. For now though, Cas doesn’t let her out of his sight.

            From his corner table, where he drinks his coffee, he has a good view of her laughing with her friends and of John Winchester entering the bar. He looks so young, but he carries himself like a man has seen too much already. Cas knows he has seen the horrors of war, and also knows that he will see so much worse in the upcoming years.

            As the minutes tick on Cas becomes worried. Mary has been flirting with the bartender for the last half hour, John is getting steadily drunker, and neither has so much as glanced at each other. Where is the appointed cupid to set them up? Mary leaves just before the bar closes, John not long after.

            Perhaps in this timeline it isn’t this particular night that Mary and John are destined to meet. Cas reminds himself that things are different here. He continues to remind himself of that repeatedly in the upcoming months as Mary begins hooking up with the bartender. He breathes a sigh of relief when it doesn’t last.

            Then John’s buddies introduce him to a pretty nurse and Cas begins to worry again. It’s a cycle of worry and relief as Mary and John date and then break up with other people. Their paths cross a few more times, but they never spare more than a passing glance for each other and the cupid never shows up.

            Then the worst happens. Mary meets a man. A kind hearted man, who is truly a wonderful person, but isn’t John Winchester. Cas watches them together and even he can tell it’s serious. The way they look at each other, the way they laugh; they’re in love. They get married in the Spring, and by next Spring Mary has a son. He has her eyes, like Dean did, but the baby isn’t Dean. They name him Thomas after his father. Her next baby is a girl. She doesn’t look like Sam at all, they name her Karen.

            John has children as well. All girls, none of them hunters. None of them even aware that the supernatural exists.

            Alone Cas meditates. Dean and Sam hadn’t been born, how could this have happened? As a rule angels don’t get sick, but that doesn’t stop Cas from feeling nauseous when he finally realizes why they weren’t born. He had done it. He had gone back to stop the apocalypse from happening and he had succeeded. Michael and Lucifer had no need for their vessels, thus Sam and Dean had not been born.

            It wasn’t fair. He had wanted to stop the apocalypse so Sam and Dean could have the peaceful life they deserves with two living loving parents. He didn’t want to erase them from history all together.

            It had been centuries since Cas had truly cried, but he sobs in that lonely church. He prayed that Father would fix this. Cas had been so patient and had tried so hard. This timeline was different, better even. Heaven and Hell were quiet. Crowley was as close to ‘good’ that a demon could get. Sam and Dean belonged here.

            Nobody responded to Cas’s night of praying. The next night he didn’t bother to pray, he just got drunk instead. He watches over the five children that Mary and John had for a few years. John’s oldest reminds Cas of Dean as she bosssd her sisters around and protects them lovingly. Mary’s son is like Sam, kind and quiet, always with a book in some corner. The older they get, the more painful it is to watch them. Then one day as Mary is tucking Thomas into bed he hears her say “Angels are watching over you.” They aren’t though, only Cas is. The other angels couldn’t care less about this human amongst all the other humans that they never cared about either.

            After a night of drinking Cas packs his bags. This isn’t his home anymore, not without Sam and Dean. Lacking anywhere else to go Cas returns to England. It’s painful, and for the first time in this timeline he feels purposeless. He’s no longer awaiting the arrival of the Winchesters, but his previous duty of keeping watch on Crowley feels hollow and redundant. Crowley is not evil, he’s barely even mean. Crowley is no more the King of Hell that Cas once knew, than Thomas is Dean.

            But Cas has nowhere else to go, and watching over Crowley and Aziraphale for so long is the only familiar thing he has left. It’s raining when Cas arrives in England. He smiles slightly, because rainy English days are Aziraphale’s favorite days. It’s comforting to think about the brother he has watched over for long, and for now he’ll take whatever comforts he can get.


	30. The beginning of the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life had gotten downright boring for Cas in recent years, but he never wanted this to spice it back up.

            It had been years since Cas had left America, and life had fallen into a routine for him. Mirroring his brother’s actions, Cas too had bought a flat in London and had settled down into a peaceful, if lonely, life of watching over humanity. Once a week He would go out, buy groceries and other human things just to blend in, granting the odd miracle or two just to feel useful, and then drink the evenings away in his tiny flat. If either Aziraphale or Crowley noticed that London was playing host to one more supernatural being than usual, neither of them said anything. Cas knew this for certain, because he still checked up on them both quite regularly.

            In fact he is watching Aziraphale read in the park when Crowley calls. Crowley always calls once every year or two just so he and Aziraphale can keep up with their reports. It’s very efficient of him. One of the few personality traits in Crowley that has remained the same. Cas enjoys listening in on these reports.

            “But one imagines this sort of things happening in America. They go for that sort of thing over there.” Aziraphale says.

            “It might yet do that.” Crowley responds.

            So the apocalypse was happening after all, and a few decades sooner than in the original timeline. It was interesting that Aziraphale mentioned America, perhaps on some subconscious level he was aware that this was not how things were supposed to happen. Cas doesn’t bother to dwell on it though. As Cas returns to his lonely little flat he realizes that he should have known that it couldn’t last. He puts a hole through the wall, and though he could fix it in an instant, he doesn’t bother. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters apparently because he failed. All his sacrifices, accidentally erasing Sam and Dean from existence all meant nothing, because in the end humanity was still doomed. It was hopeless.

            Unfortunately, nobody bothered to inform Crowley or Aziraphale of the hopelessness of their situation. Some part of Cas that wasn’t bitterly resigning himself to the end of the world had to commend Crowley and Aziraphale for their cleverness. Both of them equally influencing the antichrist child for good and evil to make him neutral was a clever idea. He doubted it would work, but it was a clever idea.

            Cas avoids the child. Meeting him once in the previous timeline was enough in Cas’s opinion. Turning into a doll had been quite an unpleasant experience. He listens in on Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s reports of the child, which have gotten more frequent over the years.

            It’s not until the child is seven that Cas finally sees him for the first time. His name is Warlock, which is an unusual name for a child in Cas’s opinion. Even if said child is the antichrist. He’s at a museum having a history lesson with his tutor Mr. Harrison. Cas instantly recognizes him as a demon.

            The boy gazes blankly at him as Mr. Harrison goes into graphic detail on medieval torture methods. As if sensing the boy’s boredom, Mr. Harrison cuts the lecture short.

            “Go wait on that bench. I will get you something from the vending machine.” He says. Warlock immediately brightens. This was why Mr. Harrison was his favorite tutor. As the demon turns the corner, Cas takes a seat next to Warlock. It’s risky, even if the boy doesn’t know the truth about himself he should still be able to sense Cas’s divinity.

            The boy barely spares him a glance, distracted by doodling in his notebook.

            “Hello,” Cas says awkwardly.

            “Hi,” Warlock responds not looking up. Cas looks over his shoulder and sees a drawing of a stick figure doing a flip on a bike. It doesn’t look very threatening. There aren’t any stick figures getting mauled to death by hellhounds in the background, or doodles of the fires of hell. There’s not even any pictures of the torture methods he was just learning about.

            “You like bicycles?”

            “Yeah. I got a blue one for my birthday. It’s the best.” He says with childish enthusiasm. He had much more enthusiasm for the bike than he did for Mr. Harrison’s lecture on torture. How odd.

            “What else do you like?” Cas asks.

            “Collecting Stamps. I’ve got over twenty and Dad promised to get me more when he gets back from his trip to France.”

            Stamp collecting wasn’t a particularly evil habit, nor was it particularly divine either. Was the plan to make Warlock into a neutral party working? Perhaps, but something still seemed off about the boy, and not in a world destroying cosmic way.

On a hunch Cas pats Warlock’s shoulder. It’s small and bony, just like one would expect from the shoulder of a seven year old. Cas freezes, hand still on the boys shoulder.

            In his timeline Cas had met the antichrist once. The raw power that radiated from such a tiny body had been immense. Standing next to him had been like standing next to the sun. The boy sitting next to him radiated no such power. Even with his hand on his shoulder Cas could sense nothing, but an average human soul.

            Warlock gives Cas a strange look and Cas quickly removes his hand. This isn’t the antichrist. This was just an innocent child, caught up in a cosmic game of chess that he couldn’t possibly understand.

            “I have to go,” Cas says quickly. He stands up and rushes out of the museum. Warlock still staring strangely after him.

            Cas slams the door to his tiny apartment and leans against it. This was a mess. Where was the real antichrist? Had factions of heaven or hell captured him to turn him into the perfect weapon? If so, how did they do so without Aziraphale or Crowley noticing? Had the real antichrist ever been on Earth in the first place?

            Too many questions. It was best go start at the source and work his way from there. He would go to the hospital where the antichrist was allegedly born and trace the antichrist’s steps from there. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was better than nothing. It is also the first time in years that he has had a real mission. Despite the severity of the situation Cas can’t help but to feel a thrill of excitement. He grabs his angel blade and begins his new self-appointed mission.


	31. The Antichrist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas finds the Antichrist.

            It has been years since Cas has properly investigated a case, but he throws himself into it with enthusiasm. It’s not hard to find a newspaper article about Warlock’s birth and from that get the address of the hospital.

            Cas rents a car. Being in a car again is strange and familiar all at once. He can practically hear Dean critiquing his choice and has to swallow a lump in his throat. The car isn’t anywhere in the same league as the impala, but it will get him to where he is going and its gold, like his old car. He likes that. The steering wheel beneath his hands feels cool and comfortable. He didn’t realize how much he missed driving until he feels the leather beneath his hands. His new life in London has never given him an opportunity to need a car. Their public transportation is very efficient, even on the days Crowley is feeling bored.

            Cas puts the key in the ignition and is ready to go. Remembering the technical aspects of driving is a bit harder. He drives for three miles before an almost head on collision reminds him that they drive on the opposite side of the road in England. With only a few mishaps and a couple minor miracles Cas, and the car, make it to the hospital in one piece.

            Or rather, what is left of the hospital. A brief discussion with one of the locals reveals that the hospital burned down rather conveniently years ago. Demons, they were always so dramatic. Cas sighs. Finding the Antichrist just got much harder.

            Harder, but not impossible.

            Cas has one advantage that nobody else in heaven or hell has. He had met the Antichrist before. He knows what it feels like to stand in the presence of such raw power. He can find the Antichrist. He has to.

            It takes months, which all things considers isn’t as long as he feared it would take.  Lower Tadfield is the quintessential English village. It reminds Cas of the middle America small town the first Antichrist had lived. The Antichrist was called Adam now. That reminds Cas of a different Adam from long ago. Ever since the Winchesters had failed to be born Cas had kept a strict policy of living in the present and not the past, but every once and while a familiar name or the smell of freshly baked pie would distract him and open up a box of memories he has been trying to repress. Sam would probably say that repression is unhealthy, but he was the one rude enough not to exist, so Cas steadfastly ignores the Sam-like voice in his head that encourages him not to bury his feelings.

            Cas watches Adam from a distance for days. To the untrained eye Adam Young appears to be a perfectly normal child. He has friends and a loving family. He’s even surprisingly polite, despite his young age and demonic origins.

            And most importantly, he loves. Cas can feel it all around. On the fifth day of watching, Cas makes contact. 

            He waits until the boy is alone, playing in his yard.

            “Hello.”

            Adam looks at him, tilting his head curiously. The man in front of him is strange, unlike anything he has ever seen before. It’s a confusing blend of power and vulnerability. And pain. So much pain is coming from this man, who Adam is fairly sure isn’t actually a man.

            “What’s wrong with you Mister?” He asks. Perhaps not the politest thing he’s ever said.

            The man shifts from one side to another, almost guiltily.

            “Nothing.”

            “My mum said it’s rude to lie,” he huffs.

            The man’s eyes widen.

            “My friends are dead, and the world is ending.”

            Adam has a sneaking suspicion that the man hadn’t meant to say that.

            “I’m sorry…you can play with me and my friends if you want.” Adam says.

            The stranger smiles at him, “that’s very kind of you.”

            Adam beams at him. His grandma had said he was such a kind boy last time she had visited, and his dad had ruffled his hair proudly.

            “Are you going to save the world from ending, like a superhero?” Adam asks, remembering the second part of the stranger’s statement.

            There’s a pause, “I can’t.”

            “You’re not even going to try?” There’s a note of betrayal in Adam’s voice, “who finds out the world is ending and doesn’t even try to stop it?”

            “I’m sorry,” he says and he sounds so broken that Adam feels his anger slipping away. Adam scoffs his shoe in the dirt. He wants to help this man, but he doesn’t know how, which is unusual for him.

            The man is staring at him intensely, as if he can hear Adam’s desire.

            “Perhaps there is something you can do,” the man says, and Adam can sense a certain type of hope growing in him. He encourages it to flourish. It makes the man glow in a way that Adam can see, but he knows nobody else would notice. He sees a lot of things that others don’t. His dad calls him perceptive. His mum calls him blessed.

            “Listen very closely,” the man says with sudden urgency. Adam leans closer. He’s going to learn how to be a superhero and save the world.

            “In a few years you are going to have to make a choice,” he says, “and you have to choose humanity.”

            Adam blinks at him. The stranger stares back at him.

            “That’s it?” Adam asks, skepticism heavy in his voice. Saving the world usually involved something more than that. Where were the explosions and epic battles?

            “Yes. It is the most important choice you will ever have to make.” He says seriously.

            “That’s boring,” Adam says. He looks around the yard at his toys, rapidly losing interest in the conversation. Even saving the world could only distract a seven year old for so long. As if sensing his growing disinterest, the stranger shoves his hands in his pockets.

            “I should be going.”

            “Bye Mister.” Adam says, his mind drifting back to his games. He runs off and grabs his soccer ball. When he returns, the stranger is gone. Adam shrugs, already the meeting is fading from his mind. It wasn’t important, just an adult talking about adult things that he had no interest in; nothing to worry about.


	32. Saying Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas says goodbye to a lot of places, and hello to someone new.

            Cas tells himself to stay out of it. He had done his part by talking to Adam, and he wasn’t going to sacrifice any more for a world that seemed determined to end. Cas had lost too much already. Now he was going to enjoy the few years he had left before the apocalypse destroyed it all.

            With that in mind, Cas visits America for the first time since he left it. He visits Mary and John’s children. They are all young adults now, with normal careers and friends. All of them blissfully ignorant to the supernatural world. Cas is happy for them, and seeing them living the normal life that he had always hoped for Sam and Dean puts a small bitter part of him at ease.

            He takes a road trip just for the fun of it. He makes it all the way to the Grand Canyon and on the way stops at every burger joint and diner that he can find. (The English never did figure out how to make a good burger.) The Grand Canyon is even more beautiful than he had imagined. Not many things on Earth can make an angel feel small, but the Grand Canyon is one of them. He stands on the edge until all the tour buses have gone home, and until the sun sets into a moonless night. Then he jumps.

            He spreads his wings at the last second and soars. Wind ruffles his feathers and makes his coat billow out like a cape. Below him he can hear the scurrying and chattering of the thousands of little nocturnal creatures who call the Grand Canyon home. He flies until the sun begins to rise and the sound of the early morning tour buses reach his ears. Cas is pretty sure a group of senior citizens see him before he lands. He’s also pretty sure they mistook him for an eagle, so he is not overly concerned.

            The trip back to the East Coast is slow and meandering. Despite his best efforts he makes it there faster than he would have liked. It’s a bittersweet moment when he boards the plane. Cas knows that he won’t be back to America again. 

            Once back in England the full weight of the apocalypse presses down on Cas again. Conflicted and unsure of what to do Cas spends many a night pacing his tiny flat, considering for the first time of revealing himself to Aziraphale and Crowley. Because surely that conversation would go over well…

            Cas finds himself on the steps of a familiar used bookshop. The sign said closed, but Cas can sense both an angelic and demonic presence just behind the door. He can imagine them in there together exchanging notes on the alleged antichrist and drinking wine. It was probably pleasant in there, in a musty type of way. Although he had never actually been in Aziraphale’s shop he always pictured it as vaguely reminiscent of Bobby Singer’s home; cluttered and dusty in a way that was peculiarly comforting. 

            Cas knocks on the door, fully prepared tell them both everything he knows. He hears footsteps on the floor and the muttering of voices. It is in that moment that Cas realizes that for all his bravery on the battlefield, he is a coward.

            Aziraphale opens the door. His stoop is empty. Aziraphale sighs in relief. He had been afraid it was a customer.

            “Who is it?” Crowley calls from the back.

            “Nobody, just some neighborhood kids having a laugh I suppose.” Aziraphale says shutting the door.

            In the alleyway next to Aziraphale’s shop, Cas hangs his head. This was a reunion he wasn’t ready to have, even with the apocalypse looming ever closer. With that realization, came a second one; there was nothing left for him to do in London.

            Leaving London is almost as bittersweet as leaving America, but he packs his bags and rents the same gold car as before. There’s a cottage for sale just outside of Lower Tadfield. His new neighbor Anathema is a bit odd, but Cas takes an instant liking to her quirky demeanor. She reminds him of Charlie.

            Finding Adam isn’t hard, although it is much harder hiding his presence from the Antichrist than it ever was hiding from Crowley and Aziraphale. Cas breaks out every spell and warding sigil he knows and he still isn’t sure it’s enough.

            Fortunately Adam seems disinterested by his presence, much preferring the company of his three companions. He has friends, actual friends! Cas couldn’t be more pleased to see that. Anything to tie him to humanity and pull him away from his demonic origins.

            Cas keeps Adam in his sight for years. He watches Adam race his bicycle through the sleepy village with wild enthusiasm, and play pranks with his friends on the other neighboring children. Although the boy is devilishly mischievous, he is never malicious. That is comforting.

            Then the hellhound showed up. Cas sensed it’s presence immediately. He draws his angel blade and follows the beast. The monster growls at him and both keep their distance. The hellhound too intent on his mission to be distracted by one angel, and the angel too curious by the beast’s presence to kill it yet.

            The hellhound leads Cas to the edge of a place that Cas has heard Adam call “The Pit.” Below Cas can just barely hear Adam’s voice. Was hell planning on killing the boy because he was not demonic enough? Cas tightens his grip on the blade, ready to defend the very human-like Antichrist if necessary.

               “No, it’s going to be the kind of dog you can have fun with,” Adam’s voice drifts up from the pit, suddenly inhumanly clear, “Not a big dog, but one of those dogs that’s brilliantly intelligent and can go down rabbit holes and has one funny ear that always looks inside out. And a proper mongrel too. A pedigree mongrel.”

            Cas watches in bewildered amazement as the hellhound shrinks, it’s ear popping out, just as Adam had described. The hellhound— was it still a hellhound?—looks positively adorable. Cas and the hellhound exchange bemused looks. Apparently, this was not what the beast had expected either.

            “I’ll call him Dog,” Adam says. The dog, because Cas is definitely convinced that it is not a hellhound anymore, wags its tail. It bounds over to Cas, who in his confusion doesn’t even bother to raise his weapon. Dog paws at Cas’s leg, and then politely waits until Cas crouches down to lick his hand, as if apologizing for growling at him earlier.

            Still unsure by this new development Cas scratches the dog between the ears. Satisfied, the dog trots off towards Adam, leaving a confused Cas in its wake. Dog greets Adam like a beloved pet greeting its master.  

            He named his hellhound Dog. While Cas had never fully understood the naming process of hellhounds, he did understand the fact that names had value. Humans chose names for their young so carelessly, but Cas knew that his father had chosen each angel name with proper care and consideration. He also knew that demons also chose hellhound names carefully. Hellhounds especially were apt to take on characteristics of the name they were given. And he had named his hellhound Dog.

            Either Adam was especially wise or especially Lucky, Cas wasn’t sure. But he was growing more and more confident that Adam was much more human then hell or heaven could have possibly predicted. And that gave Cas hope.


	33. Adam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam's true nature reveals itself.

            The Them were out playing in the fields. It was a place they often went. Cas watches them from a safe distance. He does that often. Mostly he does it because he feels the constant urge to check Adam’s progress and to make sure he’s still behaving like a human. A small part of him does it because the fields are far from all other adult supervision and Cas feels like someone should be keeping an eye on the four eleven year olds. Of course, he knows that Adam would never let anything truly bad happen to his friends. As the Antichrist he had been subconsciously manipulating his surroundings for years. It’s the main reason the village had remained such a sleepy little village for so long. Still Cas felt it was the principle of the thing that someone should be keeping an eye on them.

            The day had begun normally enough. When Cas had found them in the field they were Tibet and saving the whales. Both, Cas had found, were popular topics of conversation for them. Cas always found their conversations confusing, but interesting.

            Suddenly Cas tenses as something shifts in the air. Something dark – demonic – sweeps through the field. Cas looks around, expecting to see demons crawling out of the shadows, but the field is empty except for Cas and the Them. The pulse of power grows, Cas looks at Adam. He has a faraway look on his face.

            Cas has seen this a few times before. A spark of Adam’s true origin shining through. It will pass in a moment.

            This time it doesn’t.

            The power swells, and the world gets colder. Storm clouds formed unnaturally fast over the field, swirling ominously. This was the true power of the antichrist at last. Cas could feel it cackling in the air, almost burning to his grace. Even the humans seemed to be aware that something unnatural was happening.

            “Seems to me the world ought to be rolled up and started all over again,” Adam says, and it’s his voice but not. It’s unnaturally clear and it carries across the whole field in a way it normally never could.

            _No! He had been so human._ It was happening. The apocalypse was beginning and Cas could feel all the parts that made Adam human withering away.

            Cas listens to the children argue against him valiantly, using the peculiar logic that only people under the age of twenty understood. 

            It wasn’t going as well as Cas had hoped, although…Cas hears Adam divide up the world between the four of them. That was unexpected. The Antichrist conquered. He most certainly didn’t _share_.

            As Adam talked he grows more animated. The weather seems to match his mood as thunder and lightning crash overhead.

            Cas continues to be surprised with what Adam is saying. As he details his plans it becomes clear that he is describing a new world that half came from the mind of a hell spawn and half came out of the imagination of an eleven year old boy. Cas is pretty sure neither heaven nor hell want a new world with cowboys and aliens.

            Cas sees the children make a mad dash away from Adam, a mask of terror on their faces.

            “No,” Adam shouts, “come back. I command you!”

            The children stop.

            “You can’t leave. You’re my friends.”

            Cas groans. Adam had listened to him in a way after all. He was choosing humanity. He was choosing the people he loved, but instead choosing humanity over his demonic nature, his demonic nature was corrupting his love for his friends; manipulating it into a need to control them.

            Cas races forward. He isn’t going to let Adam enslave those innocent children. Cas knows that he doesn’t have the power to face the Antichrist, knows that he will be crushed immediately, but he can’t do nothing. There is a small still human part of Adam pushed to the back of the Antichrist’s mind and Cas knows that he wouldn’t want that fate for his friends.

            Cas stretches out his grace as far as he can. He puts all the love he has ever felt for the world, for the Winchester, for Crowley and Aziraphale, and even for Adam; the boy the Antichrist had been into it. His grace collides with the Antichrists power. Light and Dark explode. Cas is knocked off his feet, the Antichrist hardly sways.

            But he does blink. And then blink again. Cas’s and the Antichrist’s eyes meet. No, Cas’s and Adam’s eyes meet. A long ago conversation about choosing humanity plays over in Adam’s head. The love felt so strongly in Cas’s grace reminds him of the love he feels so strongly for Lower Tadfield, and for the Them, and for Dog, and a million other things he has loved in his eleven years of life.

            Then Adam screams. The Them and Cas cover their ears at the unearthly sound. For Cas, the sound reminds him of Lucifer screaming as he fell from heaven. When the noise finally stops Adam stands in the field looking wiser and older than he’s ever looked before.

            He looks across the field at the man…no, at the angel. Adam gives him a nod of gratitude before turning back to his friends.

            “I’m sorry. I’m sorry guys, but it’s alright now. I’m gonna fix it. I need your help though.”

            The Them share cautious looks. One by one they nod. Adam smiles as he feels a surge of affection for his friends.

            “Alright, let’s do this,” he says, and just like that, they’re off.


	34. The Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time in his life Cas watches the forces of heaven and hell prepare for The Final Confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue that you recognize was taken from Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's Good Omens.
> 
> One more chapter to go after this! Enjoy!

            Cas watches the children peddle away, following them from a distance. He’s not fully sure what Adam has become or what that means for the world, but for the first time he’s hopeful.

            Seeing the four horsemen of the apocalypse is…odd. They are very different than how Cas remembered them, except for Death. Death is very much the same. He admires Adam’s bravery as he confronts death with more forthrightness than most men and even quite a few angels. In that moment Cas can see just a bit of Adam’s father shining through. Lucifer never feared death either.

            Adam doesn’t beat death. Nobody really ever beats death, but for the first time in history death looked at a little boy that was more human than not and backed down. It was the closest anyone had gotten to beating death since God and Death’s last game of checkers, in 754 BC.

            As death disappears Cas feels his shoulders sag, and his knees wobble dangerously. A near hysterical laugh threatens to burst out. Was it possible that stopping the apocalypse had always been that easy? Was Sam’s sacrifice to the cage unnecessary all along? The laugh morphs into a sob.

            Cas hears Aziraphale say that it’s over.

            “No. No, it isn’t you see.” Crowley says. Cas looks at them and then follows Crowley’s gaze to the storm that was gathering, even more rapidly now. No, they were still coming. Heaven and Hell would not let a little thing like the lack of the horsemen derail their apocalypse.

            A figure rises from the ground like wisps of smoke. Beelzebub. Cas is a little surprised, he was expecting Lillith. A lightning bolt strikes the ground and in its wake an angel appears. Cas feels his jaw unhinge. If Beelzebub had been unexpected than who had appeared to represent the angels was downright ludicrous.

            Metatron? This is what Metatron has been doing this whole time? Cas isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or punch him. Probably both. He forces himself to stop gawking and pay attention to what they are discussing. 

            “I don't see what's so triffic about creating people as people and then gettin' upset cos' they act like people", said Adam severely. "Anyway, if you stopped tellin' people it's all sorted out after they're dead, they might try sorting it all out while they're alive.”

            There was that peculiar brand of logic again. Lucifer got philosophical like that sometimes, but never had his musing taken on such a pro-humanity slant. The look on Metatron’s face was a mix of fury and utter confusion. Cas smirks, clearly Metatron was outmatched when it came Adam Young.

            “You can’t run counter to the Great Plan,” Metatron says, sounding more baffled than anything else, “you must think. It’s in your genes.”

            Adam’s eyes go blank and the familiar darkness returns. Cas unsheathes his angel blade. He is not going to let Adam come so far, to fail now.

            “Excuse me,” Aziraphale interrupts politely, as if he isn’t staring down the leaders of the armies of heaven and hell, “this Great Plan. This would be the ineffable plan, would it?”

            Cas tilts his head in confusion. Of course it was the ineffable plan. What was Aziraphale trying to get at, or was he just stalling the inevitable?

            “It doesn’t matter, it’s the same thing surely.” Metatron snaps, and Cas smiles a bit at seeing him flustered.

            “But you’re not one hundred percent clear on this?” Aziraphale presses, and then Crowley begins grinning. What follows next is such an impressive display of twisting logic and inserting just a hint of doubt that Cas can’t help but to think that Aziraphale would have actually made a decent demon. He wonders if that is Crowley’s influence or if Aziraphale always had it in him to be a just enough of a bastard to pull something like this off.

            And then the most miraculous thing that Cas had ever seen in his extremely long life happened; the forces of heaven and hell, outsmarted by a demon an angel and an precocious child, agree to end the fight without a single instance of bloodshed.

            They disappear, leaving nothing but a cool spring breeze in their wake. Cas wonders if he had just been a bit more clever, he could have prevented the bloodshed of his own apocalypse and everything that followed after. It’s a disheartening thought, to think that if he had just been a bit better maybe all of this could have been avoided, and the Winchester’s could have had a normal life after all.

            He puts away his blade. He won’t need it for a fight today, possibly not ever again. The Anti-Christ is normal, Aziraphale and Crowley are more than enough to keep their heaven and hell at bay, and for the first time ever it was obvious that he no longer had a purpose in this timeline.    

            Cas is about to leave when the air suddenly gets hot. The rotten smell of Sulphur and burnt grace wafts through the air. Lucifer.

            He was an idiot for thinking it would be this simple. Cas’s blade drops back into his hand. In the background he hears Crowley moan, “but it’s supposed to be over. It can’t happen now.”

            Cas is going to die. Lucifer is going to snap his fingers and Cas is going to explode like a blood filled water balloon and this time there will be no reason for father to save him. Cas remembers exploding. It hurt, for the brief moment he had been conscious enough to register pain, and it had been terrifying. Somehow it seems less scary this time around. He’s tired of playing silent guardian over a world that isn’t really his and he’s tired of the fight. He’s going to have one more last stand, go out in a blaze of glory, and maybe even give the others a few minutes head start, and then it’s going to be over. He hopes it happens fast.

_whoomph_

            Aziraphale’s flaming sword ignites, and then he and Crowley are walking past Cas towards the unholy cracks in the ground the herald Lucifer’s arrival. Crowley is carrying a tire iron for reasons Cas can’t even begin to imagine.

            Coats rip as both Crowley and Aziraphale reveal their wings. Aziraphale’s are as messy as they’ve ever been, and it’s a bit reassuring to know that some things never change. Crowley’s wings, Cas has never seen before. They’re beautiful and he wonders if the Crowley of his timeline had wings as pristine.

            They’re making a last stand, and Cas wants to tell them no. He wants to tell them that the world still needs them, and that he’ll hold off Lucifer for them, but there’s no time, and they have no reason to trust Cas even if there was.

            Cas regrets being a coward earlier and not letting Aziraphale know who he was. There’s no time to talk, but Cas isn’t going to let them fight Lucifer alone.

            His own coat splits as his wings are revealed; black and tousled but in far better shape that Aziraphale’s.

            Aziraphale and Crowley both give him surprised looks, but nether say anything. They’re desperate for any help they can get.

             In the thrill of final battle all of them had forgotten Adam.

            “My father is coming,” he says in a half whisper. All the pieces of who Adam is come together. Adam looks back at his friends and then says more firmly, “My father is coming.”

            The world changes. The street is just a street and Adam is just a kid. Aziraphale, Cas, and Crowley hastily readjust to just being man like beings, moments before Mr. Young pulls up in front of his son.

            Then Adam and the Them are off running and the air is filled with the laughter of children, and the normal noises of an average day.

            The two angels and one demon exchange awkward looks.

            Aziraphale holds up his hand as Cas opens his mouth to speak.

            “I’m assuming this will be a very long conversation, so let’s save it until we get back to London.”

            That is how Cas finds himself in the backseat of an army truck Crowley stole. Crowley is driving and Aziraphale is in the front passenger seat. They are bickering over the music, and rock and roll is blaring from the speakers. It is the most comforting familiar thing Cas has felt in over 6,000 years.


	35. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world didn't end, now Cas has to figure out how to really live in it.

          Cas didn’t know it was possible for him to doze off. He hadn’t dozed off since his brief stint as a human. Perhaps the second apocalypse had taken more out of him than he had first assumed though, because the next thing he is aware of is being gently shaken awake by Aziraphale.

          They are back in London. Crowley is parked out front, despite the No Parking sign in front of his shop. Crowley has never gotten a ticket and doesn’t plan to start now. Besides with all the trouble he might be in for his role in stopping the apocalypse he is going to need every misdeed he can fit in while he can.

          After waking him up Aziraphale wordlessly walks into his miraculously unburned shop, stopping only to look over his new inventory for a brief moment before heading to the back room. Crowley follows him easily, like he belongs there. Cas trails behind; awkward and uncertain.

          A feeling that is not quite strong enough to be classified as fear creeps up Cas’s spine. Objectively, he knows that there is not much Aziraphale or Crowley can do to him. Cas is confident that his fighting skills can take the demon and angel who haven’t had a proper battle in centuries. However, the feeling persists. Watching Aziraphale and Crowley has been his everything for so long, the idea that this part of his life might be over, and he will have to start over someplace else is terrifying in its own way.  

          Aziraphale pours himself a glass of wine, while Crowley pours himself a brandy. They pause, as if waiting for Cas to pour himself something as well. When Cas proceeds to stand awkwardly in the doorway Aziraphale hands him his glass and pours himself another glass.

          Once all three are seated, alcohol in hand, Aziraphale smiles.

          “Now you can explain.”

          Both take his story remarkably well, in Cas’s opinion. Aziraphale is mostly silent, his eyebrows climbing ever higher as the story progresses. As Cas apologetically explains his death Aziraphale lets out a solemn “Oh dear,” but Cas gets the impression he is more disappointed in learning who killed him, then learning that he died.

          Crowley is much more animated. A few times he looks like he wants to argue, usually in regards to something his counterpart had done, but a gentle hand on his arm from Aziraphale always settles him down.

          Cas hesitates when he gets to the part about going back to the garden. He knows that by asking father to choose Aziraphale as the guardian of Eden, he has irreparably altered the course of their lives. Not to mention he stalked them for thousands of years and he knows how much they both value their privacy.

          Aziraphale take his pause as an opportunity to pour him another glass of wine. Strange, Cas didn’t even realize he had finished the first one. He takes a sip to delay the inevitable. For the most part Cas has avoided alcohol. Without Dean and Sam there just didn’t seem to be reason to drink it. Wine tastes nothing like beer. He puts the glass aside.

          The second part of the story goes much quicker than the first. Mostly Cas just explains how he has been watching them and how he has remained hidden so well for so long. When he finally finishes, he keeps his eyes on his hands, which are clenched into fists.

          “Well, that is quite a story.” Aziraphale says.

          Crowley drains the last of his drink like a shot.

          “Yeah, it’s certainly something.”

          “You believe me right?” Cas asks. That was his secondary fear; that he wouldn’t be believed.

          “After everything that happened today, yes.” Aziraphale says, and Cas lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

          “So, King of Hell?” Crowley asks, “That has a nice ring to it.”

          “Oh yes, and you were so good at it dear, especially that time you killed me,” Aziraphale says. The smirk slides off Crowley’s face.

          “Point taken Angel.”

          Cas coughs awkwardly, “I should probably go.”

          “Go where?” Aziraphale asks.

          Cas shrugs. Not America. He probably can’t stay in England after this either. Maybe Australia or someplace else with not a lot of people and plenty of nature.

          “Does anyone Upstairs know about you?” Crowley asks.

          Cas shakes his head, “not even myself.”

          “Then stay.” Aziraphale says.

          “Yeah, we rebels have to stick together.”

          Aziraphale sniffs disdainfully at being called a rebel, but his smile remains firmly welcoming.  Cas glances at Crowley who is grinning. It’s not quite the beatific smile Aziraphale is giving him, but it is the type of look that would have never found its place on the King of Hell.

          Cas nods.

          “Good. Now that that’s settled, I need another drink,” Crowley says as he grabs a bottle of Scotch. It’s one of Aziraphale’s good ones. The kind he breaks out once every couple of centuries. Crowley figures avoiding the apocalypse is a good enough reason for it now. When Aziraphale doesn’t stop him, he pours all three of them a drink.

          They drink for the rest of the night, swapping stories and comparing their worlds. Cas finds out that he is still captain of his garrison with talks of further promotions in his near future, and Crowley is pleased to hear that his version of hell has significantly less paperwork than the former one.

          None of them are sure what the future holds. Cas is hoping that this world will be able to avoid a heavenly civil war. Those, however, are worries for another night. Tonight Cas is just happy to be home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done. Over 50,000 words and over 2 years of writing I am finally finished. Thanks so much to everyone who left comments and kudos. I hope you all had as much fun reading it as I did writing it!


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